Today's poem is by Clint McCown
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
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