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The Crow

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The crow resumes his cawing,
reaching a pitch deep within his throat.
Each of his caws pierce the air,
notes so unique and strange that it is unclear what to make of them.
They are beautiful, but how can they not be, with nothing to compare them to.

They are a shrill buzzing in the air,
that sends the skin quivering from unexpectancy.
He stands perched atop the rooftop, his claws clicking against the tiles like timid droplets of rain
And his wings swishing against his feathered body
In a cadence to accompany his cawing song.

In the distance, clatter is aroused.
A percussion ensemble of drills piercing concrete
And metal claws tearing at the raw Earth underneath
And occasional clatter of instrument bruising ground.
The chorus is a jagged beeping accompanied by flashing warning lights
A string of men, ragged and rough, cursing the ground on which they stand.

And the crow resumes his song, but is absorbed
Because the song of Nature is mute against that of man.
 




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