From high above in the broken sky
I hear the crow’s harsh guttural cry
Does he call to me, far below?
Or to someone I do not know?
His voice, raucous and coarse, carries on the cold air
I turn my head, looking here and there
But the caller I cannot see
Even if he were calling to me.
What does he say, with his throaty cry?
What does he say and why?
Is it to warn of cold winter looming?
Is it to warn of fleet footed time passing?
Is it to warn of the day and the years growing ever short?
Of life and work becoming ever more fraught?
That we will all soon pass away?
And that our struggles and woes will, with us fade one day?
And the golden and red leaves whisper in the wind.
And the sun plays hide and seek in the clouds
And the morning, idly, turns into the afternoon