, ,

“Further details do not apply to you,
not meaning to imply or outright say
you intruded though you did kinda poke
your nose where it need not go poking,”
the crow cable continued, and as
the addressee poet read he need not reach
deep within to see what was the clearest

truth for the least of the poetic
souls to see, and so he knew the crows
in themselves were not evil as true
evil often lives in temples built by hands
that swear they are to heaven dedicated,
head to toe, heart and soul, but this never
intended to explore existential

concepts or get lost in a forest
riddled with rabbit holes, as a crow cable
offers quite enough playground space,
or ought to offer as much, assuming such
a space does not attempt existence
where buffaloes caught in frenzy roam
– forget about a set for cool swingers –

by now the crow scene – or more like snippet
or a twig plucked from a vignette – has flown
a good half a day away – nature
only knows how many amazing scenes
popped open like eager meadow blossoms
since the autumn sun entered and then ducked
out for the usual global samples.

“You might be surprised, oh so-called human,
how many episodes play in many
a concretely real nest that feature guess
who, so travails, tribulations, and joys,
why heck, some of us know your lines by heart.
By the way the two of us in the air
are lifelong buds; scouting for a diner.”

Taking a sip from his nightly green tea,
the would-be-poetic-type let his head
softly nod, since memory could not find
a file suggesting a time of reading
a more sensible explanation.
And to think it was written by a pair
of local crows flapping a soggy sky.