The Crows' Sunday Chat

 




The Crows' Sunday Chat

Perched above, with a croak and a caw,
Two crows held court, their voices raw.
I paused my book, their tone grew clear—
"Look at her, the quiet one’s here!"

"She’s staring now," one cawed with flair,
"Is it staring at us ? Or just empty air?"
"Maybe she thinks we’re sages, wise,
Sharing truths from the boundless skies!"

They laughed, they mocked, a playful show,
"Humans," one snorted, "so slow to know.
They rush, they fret, they hoard and race,
And only pause in this fleeting space."

The other chimed in, eyes sharp as blades,
"Ah, but see how her busyness fades.
A rare one, perhaps, she’s starting to see,
That life’s real treasures come for free."

I smirked, amused, as their banter grew,
Was I their subject, their Sunday view?
Mockery, wisdom—it’s all the same,
From feathered friends in nature’s frame.

They flapped their wings, their talk not done,
"Back tomorrow? Oh, it’s such fun!"
As they soared away, I let out a sigh,
Their chatter lingered, a truth in disguise.

The world speaks softly, yet shouts so loud,
When we’re too tangled in the crowd.
Perhaps the crows, in jest, revealed—
That life’s true meaning lies unconcealed.

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