Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)
The crow is quite an amazing creature,
Clothed in magnificent black, adorned with a lovely grey dash.
He flies high, he flies low,
Just sits on a branch twiddling his toe.
Is equally at home perching on a Bill board, or a Traffic signal,
Looking left then right, making crow sense of life.
Sometimes he decides to gather in hundreds, across electrical wires, or suspension bridges,
Sitting silently, communicating in telepathy, deciding on a grand strategy,
A few odd ones always sit looking the other way, no one minds,
It seems in crow society there is value for dissent of minds.
I have roamed quite a bit of my country's soil
There was no place, where he was not there to greet me and crow,
He tells me in confidence, I am here to stay, to compete, throw what you can at me,
This is a fight till my Crow in me is finished.
I admire this creature, his grasp of zeal, powered so well,
By his limited souls swell.
As humans we don't like competition, Crows perhaps don't know competition,
I am reminded of an old superstitious saying,
If the crow shits on your scalp,
Your old man is scheduled for a meeting with death.
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