It is pure black, without a trace of impurity
Look, at the way it crouches on the aspen tree
How like a concentrated mass of blackness
In its simple cry
A "croak" without content, because there is no content
It's mesmerizing because there is no content
Every time I see a crow in the city, I think of the crows in the countryside
The old folks say its call is unlucky
They told us to pooh-pooh it three times to resolve disasters. Until now
When I hear the crow's cry, I will panic
But I crave this familiar panic more and more
Some winter days, a few crows scattered on the bare aspen trees
and the shiny straw beneath the aspens
My grandfather, who believed in astrology and divination, and my father
believed that God lived on the roof and my mother
used to bring back old women from the village who had nowhere to go
Once brought back a wounded egret from a frozen vegetable garden
My stubborn trust, the education of memory
No less than all the education I had received
The blackness of a crow is honest, the blackness of a raven
Is clean
A crow's blackness, never wavering in the blackness
About the Creator
Christy R Davis
If you want your dreams to come true, you must first wake up from your dreams.
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