Next Time Poem by Les Derbyshire

Today it is the turn of the crows.
Driven in by an onshore gale,
They soar and tumble their way
Up the valley, calling as they come.
Tilt of a finger-fringed wing
And away on a slant glide
Halfway across the valley they go.
Dark flying scraps, they play on the wind,
Ride the wild sea's breath.
A dip and a turn to face the blow
And the strong beat of those dark wings
Sends them climbing high
Over the rooftops and the wildflower meadow.

Is it foolish, I wonder,
To think that the crows are happy,
Find joy in a fresh, bright day?
Perhaps if I can have another turn,
Next time, can I be a crow?