TO A CROW

Michael Keshigian

Your perch upon

the high white pines

dizzies rooftops

which stare at your nest,

nestled on a branch,

camouflaged by fir,

green curtains closed about you

and blue sky behind

completes your décor.

The sun illuminates

your airy boudoir,

the gusty wind

delights lofty humidity,

as you sit alone in luxury

and the rare lightness

of a fluttering disposition.

Prince of altitude,

heaven and whispering clouds

become your attire,

and when you visit,

red roses, white birch,

and colorful phlox

bloom in your park.

You are night,

passing through day,

the avian ambassador

to the wingless,

ruling the ancient court

beyond living

hidden above our heads,

we whisper in response

to your flagrant call.