The crow is quite an amazing creature,
Clothed in magnificent black, adorned with a lovely grey dash.
He flies high, he flies low,
Just sits on a branch twiddling his toe.
Is equally at home perching on a Bill board, or a Traffic signal,
Looking left then right, making crow sense of life.
Sometimes he decides to gather in hundreds, across electrical wires, or suspension bridges,
Sitting silently, communicating in telepathy, deciding on a grand strategy,
A few odd ones always sit looking the other way, no one minds,
It seems in crow society there is value for dissent of minds.
I have roamed quite a bit of my country's soil
There was no place, where he was not there to greet me and crow,
He tells me in confidence, I am here to stay, to compete, throw what you can at me,
This is a fight till my Crow in me is finished.
I admire this creature, his grasp of zeal, powered so well,
By his limited souls swell.
As humans we don't like competition, Crows perhaps don't know competition,
I am reminded of an old superstitious saying,
If the crow shits on your scalp,
Your old man is scheduled for a meeting with death.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Eating Crow by Hardik Vaidya )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 March 1934 – 31 May 2009)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 February 1898 – 14 August 1956)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
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- If, Rudyard Kipling
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- All Things will Die, Alfred Lord Tennyson
- 'Hope' is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson
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