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The Crow's Morning Cry

Updated on June 17, 2013

The Crow’s Morning Cry

By Tony DeLorger © 2011

Outside the crow sounds a morning cry,

his persistent whinging cuts through the chilled winter air.

Light is dull, clouds low and gloomy,

and the fire stoked to maximum output.

The house is quiet, sleep a winter narcotic,

escape from the reality of nature’s darkest mood.

Cats scratch at couches before nestling in furry mounds,

the nearby fire the centre of life.

How cosy the house in its sombre repose,

shrunk to its slightest expression,

wooden skeleton receded and silent,

shoulder to the wind of winter’s bite.

I ponder the day, what awaits me.

Outside, leafless trees reach for a momentary ray,

like claws they stretch out yearningly,

blanketed by a dark brooding sky.

Should I work, or should I rest?

Snug and warm inside it is a complex decision,

requiring much deliberation,

but after careful consideration, I remain where I sit.

I sip the coffee in my hand and surrender to winter,

blinded by her mesmerising glare.

Here I wish to remain until the crow’s mournful cry

enlivens the dawn of a spring day.

Until the sun melts nature’s brood,

and light beckons my creaking bones,

I’ll ponder life through a mottled pane,

and dream of days to come.


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