walking to the library I saw a crow fly by
in his feet there dangling
a small white sack
Sir, I shit you not.
From somewhere came the thought
the bag was filled with crack.
That crow on Hastings angling
perhaps had snatched that sack was being carried 'cross the sky.
It was that, thought I.
But wait! The crow is not the type
of bird to kick the gong around. Too smart
to let itself get hooked on dope.
A crow evades the heat.
A freebaser of chipmunk feet,
perhaps an owl snorts it up, the horned beak's desperate grope
and rapture, head that spins three-sixty full. The part
played by the crow's procurer. To validate
my foremost sight, inside the other claw I saw was clutched
a water pipe.
Reiterate.
(The reader now may thing I'm moonly touched.)
A gram is worth
a myriad of shiny baubles. That I know.
The wise old fool drives back the powder demons in his soul
and in exchange
the dealer makes at home inside the owl's hunting range.
A plethora of dens to plunder - mouse and squirrel and shrew and vole.
Their treasures are to enterprising crow -
forgotten coins and rings unearth.
I'll have to add an adjunct coda
from what I know of crows, however.
The addict's dose of snow is never
cut with less than twenty cents of baking soda.
And for the downvoters, I may here append an anecdote from an educational video about play behavior in non-human species - that of doggies and kitties we are familiar enough with but imagine the spectacle of a stately raven pattering up a mound of snow, then flipping upsidedown and sledding to the bottom on his back? Nature is wack-ass, man.