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Click hereWhere are you flying, dark crow?
Might your shiny black form be heading west?
Are you a mother seeking a safe nest?
How I long for your unabashed shrieks!
At dawn, your proud beak carrying melodies through the air
As you dive,
Down,
Down,
Down.
Soar upward to remind us we are still alive!
Your calls at dusk closed my day.
I drew the blinds while your formidable shadow parted ways with the approaching night.
How could self-absorbed Man ever comprehend your plight?
Our sympathetic tears cannot cleanse the rain
To coax you back --
Not while a lethal virus is on the attack.
Valiant crow,
You will rise again,
Your silhouette marking your return,
Your raven wings slicing the wind.
Thank you so much, todski, for your comment. I penned "Wing Warrior" during the time many birds -- from crows and seagulls to pigeons and sparrows -- were falling from the sky. For me, a Hitchcock fan, it was the flip side of THE BIRDS. In that context, it was an ironic tragedy. I know that I'm an amateur poet, but I find it perplexing that when I write about birds and other wildlife or about trees and mountains, there's barely any feedback. When I write about sexual penetration, there is a geyser of commentary. One of my fears is that my most heartfelt poetry -- whether formally constructed or composed as free verse -- will be widely recognized after I am dead. By the way, it has been rather nice to be told that my nature poetry often sounds Whitmanesque. I recall reading Walt Whitman's works first in junior high, and every now and then I unconsciously channel his euphoric energy (I suppose).