Seven crows flew across the sky
I watched them and I knew not why
When three went left and four flew right
The death of night brought morning flight that had me contemplating life.

Across the sky painted pink, their raucous calls made me think
What joy these seven birds expressed
When leaving bowls of twigs called nests
To shake the cold from feathered breasts
And leave the dark of night behind and taste the fruits of morning wine.

Their calls grew distant, they grew small
To disappear
And leave my morning world behind with an unblemished sky
In a painted world with colored light as if the artist wished to start again
With brush-stroke finality,
The seven crows were gone, leaving me only sky.