Walking through a cracking field,
desert, save for sprawling rows,
I stopped, as if to yield,
upon seeing a passing crow.
this gangly, burnt, and crying bird
hopped through the drying dirt.
I heard, through silence blurred,
his call, that seemed,
he was not hurt.
A crow is a bird of mystery,
loving the wisdom therein.
A crow is not to trust,
but nor is it to despise;
for though crows make use
of cunning, clever lies,
and speak of clearer, open skies,
and over falsehoods, others broke,
they do not pain,
cannot be envied the lonesomeness
of living loveless life again.