The Crow

Small outcasts,
on this small evening,
in this summer city.
Rooftops grant the crows,
outcast crows a home.
The crow,
usual times, they crow,
but outcasts back up each other.
They’re not outcasts,
at least not to each other.
They’re brothers,
sisters,
and friends.
The Greatest of friends.

The outcast children,
and their parents,
and the parents of theirs,
had been outcasts to everyone else,
ever, ever since.

They’ve been sold, beaten, and outlasted,
The Crow.

The crow had been outcasts ever since,
no bird would join their feasts,
no other had terrors.
Similar to the little outcasts,
Night is where they blended in.

In about the thick corn fields,
slowly picking out only the thickest stalks,
the small children make haste;
no time to waste.

A small yell develops past the pasture,
from the landlord,
yes the landlord of those pastures,
and those thick, stalks of corn.
He hears rustling through his bushes.

Loading his gun,
he’s prepared to take back what’ his.
They, the outcasts,
they deserved to be outcasts,
for doing what they’re doing now.
Just as he starts the search,
The Crow.
The Crows,
screeching, the call of alert.

Outcasts,
not only the children,
but outcasts everywhere,
hear the call,
the call of alert.

The children run,
they leap,
they dash,
they bolt,
for their lives,
for their reputation,
to both people who came,
to be outcasts,
to save outcasts everywhere.

A time to equalize the uneven;
To save outcasts everywhere.
The Crow.