Wisdom Of The Crows Poem by grace mariner

I call the crows to council, enticing them with field corn,
their version of coffee and donuts I suppose.
They glide in, first one, then another, each calling to the
next so the meeting may begin.
Here, everyone has a voice.
The first is no more important than the last.
And as they watch me with those bright onyx eyes, I wonder,
what do they see?
Do they care that I don't have long purple black wings,
or their crafty eyes?
They speak to me and I understand.
They greet me in the morning as I leave and in the evening
when I return.
They speak to me whether I bear gifts or not.
They are culturally inclusive, allowing me to be in their world.
I am no more important than they...we are all equals
in this assembly.