Their is beauty just beyond here...

Caught in the wiping wind....

Are the feathers black as sin....

Dancing to the world below...

As they prance to the end of their flow...

Is a willow tree, whose life was dealt unfair.....

Standing hollow with no clothes to bear.......

Beyond that upon high is a sky drained of color...

Cold, bloodless as the sliver dollar....

Waves of murders flock to the sky.......

Giving some life to the pasta dye....

Beneath the dormant now willow....

Is a peculiar young women, tucked all in by a shadow....

Her pale bear feet with no shelter braced upon the tree...

Laid back, cozy in the blackened grass with no worry to flee...

In a simple, onyx summer dress...

A true coal of beauty of bless.....

She’s a young rose, a few years passed her age of mature blossom...

Laying their in her thoughts playing possum.....

For another, that draws near......

His hopping an rustling can be heard moving closer to his dear.....

Bowed, he stood with his arms stretched unfold...

Wobbling to her head of snow gold.....

“Caaaaww caww “ rattled as he squawked......

Just inches away he walked....

With a slight grin she held her ground.....

As the curious crow awaited an alerting sound....

Dead was the air and as silent as the grave.....

With his instinct to save..

He began nuzzling her cheek in hopes of a sneak.....

Of a twitch, a peek maybe a sudden eye leak...

So soft his feathers kissed and tickled her skin....

Just as he was reaching her chin...

She thrusted up and squealed back at him....

As his heart leaped to the highest limb....

Laughing, with her white rays a shine.....

She spoke to her old friend to see if he was fine....

With his beak to the air...

He thought it was rather unfair....

“Won’t you come” she spoke.....

Rustling his feathers as the words soak...

She lifted her arm to extend her hand....

“Won’t you come” so softly it shook the crows land....

For he couldn’t resist like thunder to her voice.....

He was already there without choice....

“Shall we begin?” as her finger drifted down his chest.....

Taking off, he hopped around for that certain place to rest...

The young women reached down and drew from her a bag....

A sketch pad, of ink and paper locked in eternal game of tag...

Now resting her head against the willow an ready for the task at hand...

She looked to the crow who had took a stand...


Awaiting on her every demand.....

With his feathers, a flicker, a fan....

He stood posed, as her hand paced back and forth...

Catching, studying, ever nook and line to the curve of his beak, pointing north....

Time grew to a stand still....

For when your in that state of time of feel....

Nothing else exists except the two of us here.....

No thoughts, worries, or fear.....

Her a mysterious belle...

Him a simple crow of knell...