The Space Left Over Poem by Thomas Hooker

Was it a raven or a crow,
perched alone, this side of madness,
on an overcast sky last Tuesday afternoon,
close to the oak that holds the moon.

I believe it was a crow, his mate landed,
scrapping down the branch, twisting
old bark from a weathered scrub oak,
shiny black feathers shaped her wings.

They looked both majestic and stoic,
the first one caw'd out as I walked past,
as if to say, I'll see you in my dreams,
don't worry, it won't be long now.

The world seemed absent that afternoon,
that breezy summer day the sun began
to lean toward the space left over,
past the trees, closer to the line.