She wore a man’s hat draped in crocheted finery
deserving more respect than some tawdry decoration.
“Where are you going?” asked Old Crow
from his perch on the cigar store sign.
“Off to see my sad Meadowlark friend
who lived alone in the field by the road
where the dry grass burned yesterday
destroying her house and possessions.”
“What possessions can a meadowlark have?”
asked Old Crow as he flew along her side.
“A Jack of Diamonds,
an Ace of Spades,
a golden ring she wears in her nose.
“With green fields gone to ash,
she lives with me in the hollow tree
in the glade by the fairy pond
where we will share our winter
in sweet song to awaken the cold sun
who languishes too far south.”
“Caw,” said Old Crow.