Crow Song The crow is a scavenger, getting by on the discarded half-eaten reality of a world where it has no place But this, this poem this perfect thing this perfectly natural thing I cannot name it this moment when it appears for no good reason when everything I am finally gets to you after all the chanting and incanting the words and spells the curses the passionate responses the cynical retorts and the elegies this poem this perfect thing before poetry was named before we called to her before we knew the word, truth had a name I have tried to say it this poem this perfect thing perfectly natural this poem this place is its own end it has no past or journey it creates itself and for as long as it exists with its past in its present and its future on our lips each wave a perfectly natural progression undetermined and organic, resolving its own conflicts in perfectly natural form Trust this poem, trust this kiss Say the word with me Say the word that speaks itself and this poem sing it with me we will bear our best truth and sometimes without sense you can sing it fast I will sing it slow You will kiss away my tears and I will calm your wrath we will sing this poem this poem is our path and at the end of this poem this song of the crow you will know my secrets as far as I can go you will know my secrets you will know what you want to know ~XineAnn