My love is Crow, but I am not. His wings
are black against my skin. His voice is raw and rough,
and his English is terrible.
Skyless, I call him down to dirt.
Not born to ground, he begs me climb
to the top most branches of the oak tree -
we kiss high and hidden.
We're found when Fall and Frost take the leaves.
A sheriff comes with a shiny badge. A deputy ogles
my fine feathered body.
I stare back, unblinking.
My love is Crow, but I am not not yet!
His blue is out of reach.
Weak winged, I cannot fly with him -
For Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads