SONG OF THE CROWS
 

 
 
Most poets write of nightingales,
Or sparrows in God's eye,
But I've been moved to write my tales,
Of crows that fly on high..
 
For big, black crow conventions
Are often held on summer days,
Where crows meet with the intention,
Of conversing in crow-like ways.
 
Crows cannot sing, you know,
They can only loudly CAW!
And if they're having fun, it shows,
For it sounds like HA HA HA!
 
Their CAW CAW CAWS and chatter,
When their cronies all fly in,
Create a frightful clatter,
And one most awful din.
 
Smaller, less aggressive birds,
Fly higher in the trees,
Not wanting to be seen or heard
Amongst the likes of these.
 
Crows frequently dive-bomb the ground,
Then regain themselves and soar away.
Only then again to turn around.
To act once more the very same way.
 
Crows never stop and hop,
They fly in bee-lines to their goals,
Or sit, well balanced, at the top
Of Ma Bell's telephone poles.
 
We ought to thank her, I suppose,
For that vast network of lines,
Where crows can sit in multi-rows,
And noisily opine.
 
Unpleasant, grating, raucous cries,
From a hawking, squawking crew,
Cause men to hide their eyes,
As well as cover their ears, too.
 
But no creature made by God is bad
Even though they may not please us,
I think crows really make Him glad,
And He uses them to tease us.
 
Something there is about a crow,
That can be humorous and fun,
But I need for you to know,
 I'd rather see ... than be one.
 
Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright June 2003
 


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