It's Still Life

But that crow—
the crow is the one who watches me watch.

Balanced on the tip of the picket fence,
he tilts his head and lets me see
the whole cold mathematics of his eye.

He is not bird.
He is a theorem with feathers.
A calculation of distance,
a proof of patience.

And when he flies, it will not be flight.
It will be a conclusion.

Come with me, I hear him say.

… and the birds still think I’m morning

Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all writing is my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.