squak squak

Sometimes,

I wish that I were a bird,

perched upon your

shoulder.

A crow,

one whose glimpse would provoke

curiosity and wonder

amongst those who approach it,

leaving them with a tinge of

craving

to dive deeper into it.

Alone,

in its core,

though not lonely,

lies a reflection,

a reflection of all that is there

and all that it beholds.

Its ponderers could be left with

disappointment

or

fulfillment,

and either way,

the crow would know that it had completed

what had needed to be

done.

After all,

the crow knows nothing

but what it needs to know.

And, all that is needed is there,

no matter any judgement placed upon it,

judgement which may taint its "true"

perception.

Does the "truth" not taint itself?

So, tell me:

what do you perceive a crow's feathers

possess

that is beyond any form of

comprehension

to us, and even to the crow itself?

In each rainbow ray of light

which shines off of the crow,

which beholds infinities of

mysteries

and

entanglements,

do you seek something, despite that

the only place to truly search

is in yourself?

In the crow's abstract making,

did it fool you as it fooled

all?

stay good.