Each morning
neighborhood crows
fly toward
a gently
rising sun,
hundreds landing
softly on the
highest hilltop
as our golden orb
slides into
watercolor skies.
Chattering of
breaking avian
news beneath
trees undressing,
they welcome together
daylight in
funeral attire and
with shrill songs,
doing a thing
that the human
in me can’t
help but join
in doing –
we marvel
in the sunrise
together.
Never minding
my presence
or admiration,
never minding
their bad reputation
for doing
dirty jobs,
never minding
their tenuous
flightpath
between
death and life,
they do their
crow thing
each day
and fly each
evening back
toward the sun
as it slips
into a fiery
goodnight.
Inhabiting the boundary
between heightened
existence and
ambivalence,
they’ve little
concern for where
November winds
blow decaying things
during the cold night,
rather they
sleep soundly
amongst the dead
before gathering
for tomorrow’s sun,
rising once again
upon a world alive
with morbid
avian purpose.
Renee Novosel
All Rights Reserved
Copyright 2014
That moment when you read the first verse of a Renee Novosel poem and it could mean so many things and you don’t know what yet, but you know it’ll mean something.
Luke, I’m truly humbled. Thank you. Huge smiles early in the morning! Happy Thanksgiving!
Love your description (love crows). May I reblog?
I would be honored. Thank you. 🙂
Brilliant! Thank you.
Reblogged this on Tales of Unwise Paths.