Crows

Morning rain grows on wet crows
In white bodies under their nights
Their feathers a thing of the night.
Becoming is larval thing between.

By noon they will sure outgrow it.
Then they will be thick dark foliage
And shadows, part of a big picture.
Evening turns them back to crows.

During noon they wave their heads
In the branch,on their screwy necks.
They fly into our afternoon’s siestas,
Their wings flapping on our eyelids.

Mornings they pick up soap cakes
And our princess’ jewels in bathing.
They drop pebbles into thirsty pots.
Evening they are ancestors on walls
Come to eat rice balls, one by one.