Counting Crows
Five jet black birds hover
In an ominous flight above head
Whilst I stood amidst the sea of luster
This gilded outgrowth of summer possessed
They spun obliviously, maladroitly,
Entangling and severing lies
And when the sun hides
In the foliage of white pages
Brewing a concoction of lightning,
Thunder, rain, and mistral wind,
The crows would perch in a leafless tree
Forking its branches into the sky
Asking for alms, shearing the charms
Of false hoping and the crows
Beckon the sedentary peril
Lurking like panthers behind the curtain
Of inevitable and malignant fate
Watching and calculating
In ravine and vulpine askance
And every gloaming one crow would fly
To anywhere but in the sea of rye
Hastily in fastidious motions
Its wings would flap and glide
Leaving the horizon,
Leaving an anxious anticipation,
One after another, they flew
Pilfering the lustrous tawny view
And as the number dawns to extinction
I stood still, holding my breath
Up into the small of my neck
Swallowing the clock
As I count crows,
Malinger days,
Sojourn deaths;
A close good bye.
poem by Norman Santos
Added by Poetry Lover
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