The Crow Sends the Morning Tun

The crow sends the morning tune. I squat in my two-legged pose, expanding above the green pasture, as death continues to harvest those of memory. Only tribute can be acquired from these banks. The wind blows against my tired body; the constant news of civil war puts tension in both my arms— but I release them. I seek the coolness of the morning grass blade, and the morning song that feeds my yearning soul, where the city's noise blurs like the aggressive turbines of a blender. But I sit in calmness, and my inward anchor is fastened on You— the unmoving circle that is stationed in eternity.