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Whatever the Crow Does,
It Doesn't Search




When I think that I am the most lost of all,
I remember the one who was meant to find me
and would like to send her a message
of comfort and consolation,
of understanding and forgiveness.

A crow flies across a fiery cloud at sunset.
There is no crow.
Yet still, as I watch, the sun goes down.
The crow is the first moment of night.

I cannot see her face,
I shall die, it seems,
never having seen her face.

Better sadness than contempt,
don't you think?

Her face, my face, two dark-feathered crows.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.