Each drop danced a ballet, piercing the thick

layers of solemn pall. They leaped and twisted

from the clouds and guided the dagger blades

that slashed faces and whipped leaves off trees.

Wolf-like, it howled on the mountain, relentless,

as a crow soared overhead through the clouds.

Its wings worked hard to keep it alive – what a

monotonous existence, we chuckled. Sustenance

is not enough for us. We crave amusement, but

the bird just wants to live. What a peaceful

existence, I thought, and what a lucky crow.


Perpetual drumbeat becomes unsteady

as chaotic serenity descends from the grey.

Shrouds of death linger in the crisp air, rickety

as zephyr calmly pummels even the strongest

trees – then the breeze becomes a wind, and

the wind becomes a storm. Battering the city

and demolishing everything in its path, it left

nothing in its wake. We were abandoned, we

were alone. Drumbeats faded away and

we watched the crow’s despondent body

descend down and smack on the concrete.


What a monotonous and grey existence,

and what a lucky crow to have escaped.