Wet Crow by Nitoo Das

Someday I will learn
to capture
the wet crow in words.
I will write about

the wing-shoulders
hunched a shade of
sleek
and the faded evening
caw-cawing against the dark

jade of trees.
I will mention
the curious cocking
of a wise-eyed aging
punk, greyer
and a strange wet

beard beneath the beak.

Someday I will know
how to etch lines
into the black shimmer
shake of body and

clutching claws that speak.



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