Poetry

The Fall, 23 (267.)

The crows circle the lawn
while pigeons pace along the sidewalk.
Seagulls are somewhere,
hoping for delectable trash.
Then there’s me,
tender-hearted raven in the rookery,
sitting and reading and
waiting for any kind of clarion call.
They never furled a scroll
to tie around my neck,
thus I have no missives,
no
instructions.
My only guide is myself,
so it’s finally time
to take to the sky,
for the first time in
what feels like millennia.
Come, fate –
my mouth is a fine chisel,
and I’ll sculpt you
how I see fit
with this slowly-whetted beak.

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