Three Variations

crow (2)

Bird upon a wire,
Nearby the fallen statue base which crumbles,
In upon itself, ashamed to have no admirer.
Once the children played upon his hip,
And the cool water mended his hot face,
As mothers spoke of hunger or lost faith,
But now, only the bird comes, dipping spired
Beak with pensive glances, then leaving
Upon him the excrement of some greener place.

The fountain holds stagnant green mold,
A large crack restricting new water,
From gaining any foothold within,
The old limestone, set with care by Pavlik,
Who brought with him daily his crow,
Tied upon rawhide, only one eye to tilt,
This way and that round the new square,
While old man patted in each crevice.
Thinking of his grandchildren’s laughter.

On that luminous night,
When all the youth had gathered,
Wine with smoke mixing like fragrant laughter,
Lena had almost been struck by the toppling,
Just ducking away she fell face-first,
In water cold and thrashed with boots,
She felt the crush of her youth fading,
She saw the black crow let go of taunt tether,
She heard the old man singing of bread.

About Pitboss14

Cosmic surfer of paradoxes.
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