The Crow

Before the stop sign was a wheat field
A mighty old oak tree sat at the center
Its roots were scaffolding
And its limbs cradled the valley

In that tree sat a crow who watched the wind tickle the crops to bloom

Today the crow is perched on a rusty stop sign
Waste reflected in his beady, black eyes
He cries all day and night
Kaw! Kaw!
Kaw, in disgust.