The fledgling crow stood on the bench
for a long time, its eyes blinking,
its claws crooked on the planks,
its tail feathers stubby.
I watched it for a long time,
until its final stubby flight
into the grass by the fence

I watched another one later
(or perhaps the same one)
balancing on too-thin branches
in the brush pile — tentative shifting,
weighing the give of the branch
against the thrust of take-off,
hopping to equally flimsy branches,
getting ready to try again

We are so very much like these crows,
almost or maybe able to fly,
blinking for a long time
in the uncertainty of the tasks at hand,
lovingly watched over all the while.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 9, 2016