It was cloudy with a chance of death.
That was okay, right up until the Sun came out,
in its infinite attempt at smiling in the face of sadness,
and mocking the mourning we were all doing,
He said he knew why the caged crow sang,
and I told him that he was not the poet she was,
never would be,
never could know the exquisite pain of a mother in mourning,
I enjoyed the company of a crow,
the pernicious nature of his eyes,
the ruthlessness of his feet,
I enjoyed him very much,
until he overstayed his welcome with his countenance,
with his squatter's rights,
charting and mapping the each little tributary for future use,
There was a line of demarcation,
and he knew very well the good side of my mind,
and he knew very well the wrong side of my tracks,
And so we waited for the clouds,
all of them,
they promised to return,
so when I looked up,
way up in the sky,
well above the faux Fata Morgana you placed there as a decoy,
I saw a broken cumulonimbus,
and I knew we were done for,
We got right down in that plot with our black umbrellas,
dry,
fingering the thirsty dirt,
to no avail,
save for to say,
we weathered some storm,
someone's---
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