The Meadowlark

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.

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