Anger at a Crow

The crow stood in its normal place on the tall branch

Presenting all the ignorance that fits that perch.

He squawked loudly for an unknown reason.

This display was meaningful to him and no one else.

I was overcome with an urge to harm the crow.

I imagined the crosshairs on his small scruffy, feathery frame.

There was a small joy that filled me as I imagined him fall

Never to disgrace the clouded sky with his fights with other birds.

I paused to consider the surprise of the thought.

I didn’t know if I mourned my own peace or pitied his life.

I tried to assure myself it was not unusual to wish him gone,

But what is a crow anyway that it should earn my hate.

The crow will not be the one to answer for wasted time.

They eat the the babies in the nest of other birds.

But we will go on living as it flies over and caws.

Life is too short too spend angry at crows.

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