There is a crow in my garden
Of elegant black feathers
And a sweet beak for picking berries.

It comes by sometimes
To pick berries, perhaps
And it fascinates me.

With its exquisite form
And its sharp eyes
I am drawn to it, truly.

And then it turns to stone
In my stone garden
Its wings wide among the rocks.

And I forget the crow
– I cannot love a thing made of stone –
And I do not know how long it stays.

Because I look back sometimes, and it is gone
Until one day, it flies back into my garden
And I see its elegant feathers, and I love it again.

31.V.23