Six crows swirling. Seven songs.
The meaning is in the movement.
Eight brings me to the double balance.
And I pause to receive the message.
The crows swoop to check a possible treasure on the pavement.
They touch down quickly, in crowded curiosity,
Hopping and cawing, poking and pecking,
Their wonder overcomes caution during this one instant in time.
In my mind I sense the Feri,
In my bones I feel the flow.
And then,
They rise up quickly, a swirl of black wings and madness,
Bringing me a message of movement and mayhem.
I hear their caw, caw, cawing fade into the distance,
Leaving me to scan my brain for clues to further meaning.
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Another wonderful poem. Thank you. I have seen too much of the black crow lately.
Thank you Wendy. I can never see a crow without trying to figure out what it might mean.
Beautiful!