The January wind
Freezes a crow
In mid-flight
And mid-caw
And suspends it
In the icy blue sky.
It's black eyes bulge.
Its caw,
Stuck on high,
Dogs me deep
Into a corn field,
Slicing through
All the crunching and
Rustling of the brittle,
Frost tinged
Corn stalks
Scraping my coat
As I brush by.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem