They know the slow solemnity of earth
ungainly labouring to pace across
the ground and feed. They strain to flap escape
from passing hominids, a cat or fox
and slog through Spring and Summer building nests
and rearing young. Sex is a moment's touch.
So now in early Autumn's failing sun
when these dour corvids soar and wheel
high in the wind, playing with gravity,
surely they cannot help but feel elated.
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