I hear the call of the crow,
As the black bird preens itself,
Resplendent in its gothic glory.
It has been calling to me
For some time,
Often in the distance,
But always there, a dim cry
In the endless ether,
Waiting for me to find it
And draw near.
I stand on the precipice now,
Gazing down at the bird before me.
It watches me,
Almost expecting me to leap
Over the chasm to where it rests.
I dare not, frightened I may fall.
So fall I will not,
And simply watch with furrowed brow,
Until the crow takes to the sky,
And vanishes out of sight.
