Speaking crow

 
Crow sits on a branch
black eyes, tilting his head
as wind rustle leaves
hanging on to winter
bleeding itself out

observing flesh
dressed in cotton
walking along his
path in silence,

drinking in faces
as remembrance
while grooming
mangled wings
from ambush
after ambush

that's how crow
commands your
flesh before him,

you'll hear no
caws calling
out from his
sharp beak

he demands
only to be felt.