Not caring of the fury that ruffles his feather.
For he knows that in the eye all is calm.
At the heart of the storm he can receive no harm.
For even though his feathers are bespeckled with rain.
His heart pounds at the approach of storm onto his plain.
For though she may scare lesser birds when she raves.
For the crow, the storm is what he craves.
And the storm is yet a sweet flower girl.
She still likes to cut loose and kick up hell.
To see the flower girl dance up a storm.
Leaves this crow all exhausted and worn.
And even when we have moments blond.
The Storm is a friend of which the crow is fond.
So carry on with the mudpuppy dreams.
Leave this crow with a smile that beams.
mudcrow
June 15 1999
