POEM: Shucking Crow

There's a crow outside my window.
Can it see me through the muslin?
Could its feathered form be winnowed -
spirits shed by baker's dozens

until remained only a faint dot?
Does it ask the same of me, or not?

This entry was posted in Animals, poem, Poetry and tagged Crow, poem, poetry, Raven by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.