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.

Lisa Barnett

If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Lisa Barnett   would be pleased to hear them.