I am Crow:
Blood eater,
Sinshitter,
Sleepstealer;
Shake no puny spears
In my direction, for
Your mountains of death
Are no barrier
To my progresses …
and next time you
Come across my silhouette,
Hear my lid-of-coffin voice –
In sunlight or darkness,
In hours of labour,
Love, thought or rest–
Take heed;
It is no accident
That you are sometimes
Brushed by my feather-light shadow:
Think on, mortal,
Of the things you must
And the things you mustn’t.
I’m going to take another look at that murder of crows roosting in my neighbor’s Sequoia tree.
Smiling here at the thought: there was just one day where whatever I was doing, wherever I was a crow (sometimes a jackdaw but poetic licence right?) was nearby: busy or watching.