4

Sunlight parches us
in beauty without mercy;
rain drifts – a mirage 

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Corvid

It craked.  Hoarse and raw.
Footloose, on the wing, it looked down at us.
Perched in the roof-line gutter, craking on… 

The bird of fortune, named by accident,
rescued by goodwill, nurtured in our den,
drawing down our blackened greed, shimmering… 

“You gaaave me what I asked for;
I can see how much is there –
now I want more! More!! Mohre!!! Mohhre!!!!”