Doused spirit
sheltered under wet wings
pearly-rain-pelted,
he hears the grass sing.
He gives:
his body a shake,
his quills his beak,
the world a glance
which shatters against bricks.
The monotony
of corrugated tin
sends a shudder like a wave.
Flight is delayed.
Freedom's on hold.
If only he could unfold
his wings and caw,
How he would rise above
the rain-soaked clouds!
Poor jackdaw!
Poor, poor jackdaw!
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