Black Wing, Bright Eyes

Black Wing, Bright Eyes

A crow stands still on a burning red,

like a secret kept that won’t be said,

his feathers drink in every light,

a quiet king of shadowed sight.

He watches all with tilted head,

no word escapes, no movement fled,

and in his eye a knowing sits,

of human noise and clever bits.

A heart is drawn beside his claim,

yet love to him is not a game,

he pecks at truth, not painted lies,

and sees through all we try disguise.

Below, a call to watch and stay,

to like, to speak, to drift, to play,

a world that begs for one more glance,

while time slips by in silent chance.

Then lower still, those golden eyes,

a cat that stares, that never lies,

wrapped in a web not made to hold,

but drawn like stories often told.

No fear, no cry, just steady gaze,

a quiet soul in tangled maze,

both hunter and the caught in one,

a midnight shape that shuns the sun.

So crow above and cat below,

both see far more than we may know,

one takes the sky, one guards the night,

both standing still in burning light.

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