a poem for today

Walking Home on an Early Spring Evening

Every microcosm needs its crow,

something to hang around and comment, 

scavenge,

alight on highest branches.

Who hasn't seen the gnats,

the pollen grains that coat the windshield—

who hasn't heard the tree frogs?

In the long march that takes us all our life,

in and out of sleep, sun up, sun gone,

our aging back and forth, smiling and puzzled,

there come these times: you stop and look,

and fix on something unremarkable,

a parking lot or just a patch of sumac,

but it will flare and resonate

and you'll feel part of it for once, 

you'll be a goldfinch hanging on a feeder,

you'll be a river system all in silver

etched on a frosty driveway, you'll 

say "Folks, I think I made it this time,

I think this is my song." The crow lifts up,

its feathers shine and whisper,

its round black eye surveys indifferently

the world we've made

and then the one we haven't.

David Young from  Black Lab