Crow Song
       

The mockingbird
sat quiet
which was its way
of doing mountain.

But no one
tossed a crumb
his way
or marveled
in the least
at his perception.

Disgusted,
he laid fault
with the high crags;
and straining
his voice uphill,
he swore
at the barrenness
of perfection,
at his talent
left speechless
in the trees.

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Copyright © 2019 Clint McCown All rights reserved
from The Dictionary of Unspellable Noises
Press 53
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission