The Gift of 7
The rain stops.
In the steamy mist
i spy 7 in that murder of crows.
And as I pass, they call out
as if expecting me-
awaiting my arrival-
bringing me the gift of 7.
A secret that's never been told.
A journey that's never been made
told in echo and caws-
then suddenly lift off squat and absurd, airborne
as if hurled into the the lifts by unseen hands.