A crow sits taut on top of a red pine,
Breaking his circumspect and sporadic gaze with stuccato
Bursts and the choreographed
shake shake shake.
It seems to be a call to others;
They reply promptly and soar overhead.
What wisdom do they throw at each other in those fragments?
Wisdom, or perhaps inanities?
A battle cry? A
Friendly 'good day'? Various historical facts?
"India gained its independence from the
British Empire in
1947."
What dark logic, their oil-
Slick feathers sit thus.
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