Poetry

Black Crows

I’m looking at the tracks,
and I’m wondering,
where the black crows fly,
why we toil here, underneath.

We work fields by fences cut,
freshly mown, gently falling,
and rising once again,
in the distant early morning.

Echoes of their cawing
rattle just above.
Like us, they pick and hop,
for leftovers and love.

A little one just hatched,
a fledgling from its nest dives.
We watch the sun,
a golden orb,
at sunset fill the sky.

At dusk we come to rest,
like crows settle to roost,
and wonder why
the nighttime stars
still fill our hearts with hope.

November 2024 / Commuting to work.

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Dare

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The Conversation

Dare

Now to Our Own

Nun zu den Unseren