The Cawing of Crows

"the story of our tribal nature"

Above me, the eagle soars in solitary silence,

circling, circling, in his singularity of task,

his skyward stealth, his savage search,

his golden eye grasps his mindless prey,

he gives no reason for his soul, no question does he ask.


Around me, the crows settle in my resting tree,

cawing, cawing, in their communal way,

their chitter-chatter, their cranky commentary,

their nagging voice annoys away their fears,

they have nothing meaningful to ask, and even less to say.


Within me, the truth does circle round and round,

calling, calling, in its seering voice,

its cold commands, its bold demands,

its interrogation of my soul,

it examines now my every thought, my every fateful choice.





The End

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