The crow

Amongst the flock, a crow
grey feathers tattered - fall
drifting softly, whelmed in woe
within the chirps - a caw;
of a crow rising
from the shadowy flock
Masked by the chatter
from Bird to bird, Their
tails like velvet rainbows,
leaping into the sky.

The Birds dance, soaring
within Their song a pouring
of noise, an endless cawing
its drawling
unheard amongst the calling-

Land once more;
still falling...

Pained it tries to sing
with beak and claw - a tool
to give it flight, a wing
not weighed by strong earth's pull.

Till now it dances
molting-
red against the Blue,
hoping Their feathers
somehow
may stain its own ones too.