the Crow harrowed over the soil,
exposing the live larvae to the cold moon,
death bestowed upon them,
for it is soon to be their birthday.
encrypted remain the thoughts,
that never were thought to begin with,
only promised to the young flowers that grow,
but soon to be assigned once again.
existential relevance weighs heavy,
on the minds of mice,
impossible to foresee what might come,
yet guaranteed to live each indivisible moment.
now adjusted, the Crow steps once more,
stalking its Shadow,
it follows the only path it knows,
home to where its heart belongs
// a Weird Fish poem
