a Crow

From morning to evening
He gives me a head ache
With his monotonous caw-caw
On my window sill

I give him bread crumbs
And he stares at me
With his head at an angle
To the left, and then right

I speak to him
As if he understands
He picks the bread
and glides away

Expertly flying,
breaking though winds
resting on a branch
opposite my grill

To refresh a breath
and rest for a while
pruning his black feathers
after a short flight

Far on that branch
amidst the green leaves
I see his black beak open as
I begin to write.