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.
Hardik Vaidya's Other Poems
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Eating Crow by Hardik Vaidya )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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