Jumping, sliding along a blue rail, <br />The crow seems at home next to the half-eaten somethings <br />On plates, in the open-air restaurant. <br />Another one, cheekier than the first, lands <br />On one of the white plates, pecks, attacks a piece of dry bread. <br />The loud resonating tune the four crows make – <br /> A celebration of crumb and dried something, perhaps – <br />Causes me to feel at home, at ease with them.<br /><br />Mark Pollins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/counting-crows-2/
