GraybeardGhost
Well-known member
Crows
Early morning, coffee time:
hot and dark and sweet
(but bitter from my metal pot),
poured into a sacred cup,
and taken out to sip upon the porch.
Early, silent Sunday morn:
cool and dark and sweet,
but bittersweet.
The feel of fall is in the air:
not many mornings left for this,
to sit and sip and watch the world awake.
Raindrops drip upon the porch,
spiders spy, and as the sky
begins to come alight,
the crows commence their raucous din.
A single dove replies,
as if to mourn the silence that has been.
