Perching High Upon Darkened Branches
Black feathers, beaks, and talons
Songbirds of sorrow in lonely nests
Eyes waning, chipped Bills Falun1
Arrested deep within murky swamps
Here these crows do wait solemnly
Waiting for the return of their purpose
Biding time for the day they might fly free
Yet still one thing gives them pleasure
A worm below wriggles and writhes
The bleak gray mud it's putrid home
Black wings unfurl, a dark one dives
Pecking up worms to shred and chew
A frenzied mass of squirming flesh
The crow delights in tearing them anew
The worms do cower before the crow's resh2
The mud consumes split worms and feathers
One crow particularly enjoys their pain
The worms strewn upon his canvas of death
He watches in aw as their corpses strain
One worm remains yet living
The worm still writhing, wriggling, free
The crow grows tired of it's gaze
"Foul thing of mud, death shall be thy fee"
With one fatal peck, tis done
The bird flies home to darkened marsh
Resting high in quiet solitude
His nest still warm yet branches harsh
He looks to the dark horizon sorrowfully
He shuts his eyes and dreams of peace
He ponders the worm…
"Shall too death be my release?"