Every microcosm needs its crow,
something to hang around and comment,
scavenge,
alight on highest branches.
Who hasn't seen the gnats,
the pollen grains that coat the windshield—
who hasn't heard the tree frogs?
In the long march that takes us all our life,
in and out of sleep, sun up, sun gone,
our aging back and forth, smiling and puzzled,
there come these times: you stop and look,
and fix on something unremarkable,
a parking lot or just a patch of sumac,
but it will flare and resonate
and you'll feel part of it for once,
you'll be a goldfinch hanging on a feeder,
you'll be a river system all in silver
etched on a frosty driveway, you'll
say "Folks, I think I made it this time,
I think this is my song." The crow lifts up,
its feathers shine and whisper,
its round black eye surveys indifferently
the world we've made
and then the one we haven't.
-- David Young
