Through the skylight, I looked up;
the crow looked down at plate and cup.
His eye was yellow, hard and bright
against the morning’s seam of light;
a judging eye, that found me less
than tree or sky or wilderness.
And so he left me, to repair
to his unfettered native air,
while I remained earthbound, alone,
to wish his dark ascent my own.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Lisa Barnett
would be pleased to hear them.