Counting Crows - Poem by Mark Pollins
Jumping, sliding along a blue rail,
The crow seems at home next to the half-eaten somethings
On plates, in the open-air restaurant.
Another one, cheekier than the first, lands
On one of the white plates, pecks, attacks a piece of dry bread.
The loud resonating tune the four crows make –
A celebration of crumb and dried something, perhaps –
Causes me to feel at home, at ease with them.
Comments about Counting Crows by Mark Pollins
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- IfRudyard Kipling
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- TelevisionRoald Dahl