It's Still Life

A Crow’s Feast

in that darkness
in that silence
in the simple of the night,
the topmost branch escaped
its clutch,

it fumbled with the wind.
it fell, it scrambled down
the rattling air, fell upon
the apple tree, where
there upon the ground,

now apples apples bounce,
now a hop a hop by
a lump-of-coal-black crow.
a feast of fruit, nature gave
a meal from fortune’s lot.

Poetic Asides Day 8: “a thing”