I hear faintly the crying of a crow, far, far away,
echoing from unseen woodside.
It mingles with the slight murmur
of the village, the sound of children at play,
as one stream empties gently into another.
And the wild and the tame are one.
It is not merely crow calling to crow.
For it speaks to me, too.
I am part of one great creature with him.
If he has voice, I have ears.
On the one hand, it may be as the sound of children
at school, saying their A-Bs, A-Bs
On the other, far in the wood-fringed horizon,
the cawing of the crows out at their long recess.
Children who got dismissed.