A solitary crow alights upon
the half-torn branch of the broken tree;
cawing to a misted winter morning
blooming silently into its glory.

A rustle; the frightened crow flies off
the half-torn branch of the broken tree,
and its rising wing brushes a leaf
that does not know how tò be free.

The fallen leaf will wet and wither
beneath the winter’s sun and rain,
but that black crow that flies the skies
will never léarn what it has done.

But a little squirrel that saw it all
will plant a treasured nut when it is spring,
and a tree will open beautifully
with the leaf that fell from the crow’s black wing.

(written ca. early 2012)

For more about the poem, see notes.