Old Crow Meets New Day

The old crow, sitting idle under the yew, was a statue of ice-dew. Her stare was ominous but empty, a stark contempt from red ember tree as the morning sun recedes from its former height, the crazy dawn's moon-blight. Her blackness matched the fading night, the freezing winds blew despite, and when she saw the pressing light, the desperate mask of heaven's might. Her world was "not no more it seemed", often this is what she dreamed. Like prophecy, the hour-glass upside down: the memories drawn with savory frown, that was when the joker's card had turned around, its clownish suit became a crown. She flew the gilded path of arrow straight. She flew until the noon was late. Her wings took her past the desert realm, feathers glossy at the helm. She crossed the sands beneath the sun; the flight of one last desert run. The waves of air beneath her beat, pulsating in the desert heat.