Contemplative Crow

The Contemplative Crow waits

Perched on black, still feet

On black, hot asphalt.

The Contemplative Crow peers

Into the green brush of trees

And thinks about his next move.

The Contemplative Crow discerns

The movement of a worm

And the shimmer of a butterfly’s wings.

Is his brain really what they say?

Has he nothing sentient to offer?

Is not the knowledge of the Creator written on his breast? 

Is not his ebony eye the window to God’s face? 

I see you, Oh Contemplative Crow, 

I see what you know. 

I wish for such a bird brain as yours at times, 

Oh Crow.