Stowaway On a Cloud

A short poem about grieving the loss of my dad in my life and the crow that helps me alleviate this pain

All too often I look up and see him there
 peering down through the oak leaves,
 a stowaway from a cloud.

Around the yard he follows me
like a young child with his father,
 a keen eye on my every move.

He sees my life:
 the ring placed on my finger,
 my wife’s, a month after he left;
 the grandchildren he never met,
 the house I call home.

That’s what I pretend sometimes at least,
 whatever gets me through the day,
 and today of all days.

To everyone else, he’s just a crow:
 a loud nuisance per reputation,
 a symbol of death, a bird to shoo away.

They don’t see the beauty in his black feathers;
 the curiosity of his ways,
 His capacity for quiet that of a sage.

They don’t hear the clicks and coos,
 only the harsh caws;
 never the rattles, whispers, and wahs.

I call him Mr. Jones.

stowaway crow in a tree

Mr. Jones

Photo of Mr. Jones the crow. This particular crow visits me every day. More than a few times a day actually. You may think I sound crazy. That’s okay. You may also wonder how I can recognize an individual crow. Once you establish a bond with a crow, you no longer wonder that. They act as a collective, but are very individual in their voices and habits.

P.S. They also can identify individual human faces.