It's Still Life

Crow

A crow bows its head over a weathered day, hooked beak probing this, that, and memory. Its black ribs stitch the horizon as rain threads the air, dissolving the field beyond into a smudge of ash.

Crow, pilot of the deepening gloom. Crow blackness of feathers drinking in greyness — a moving void against the pale wash.

He keeps himself to himself, like a secret, like a book closed from the inside.

And all around it, the world unravels slowly — slack rope, slow breath — yet here, on this fence post, a single dark insistence refuses to be smoothed away.

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Written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story including the word “pilot”.  Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2025.