Crow Poem by Daniel Trevelyn Joseph

I have watched crows landing
So perkily to sit, hop and settle,
They adjust their folded wings thrice.
Not once, not twice, but thrice.

Please count when you next see crow land:
It is not like adjusting the sari’s pallu
Which an Indian girl does
In her particular unique style every time.

But the Indian crow, described beautifully
By Mark Twain in Crossing the Equator,
It adjusts from its shoulder down and back
Thrice, almost every other time, it perches.

They fly so actively when they want, lecturing,
Or when a dead rat provides food on pavement,
And when they hold conference, to finish off
Eggs and young ones, of all other birds around.

Yet I feel uncomfortable in a place
Where I don’t see them, like in Kavarati
In Lakshadweep Islands: is it comfort, when
Habits govern life, and mind is absent?