the crow sang at midnight
but nobody heard
its sunblack feathers
were the color of
the darkest air
its beak the shape
of the moon
a deadwhite crescent
they fancied a dove
that they thought spoke starlight
with its coo

and no one questioned
the whitepure of the dove
or the smokeugly song
of the crow

07/27/2007

Author's Note: midnight

Posted on 07/27/2007
Copyright © 2026 Peter Hsu