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I hear faintly the crying
of a crow, far, far away,

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echoing from unseen woodside.

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It mingles with
the slight murmur

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of the village, the sound
of children at play,

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as one stream empties
gently into another.

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And the wild and
the tame are one.

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It is not merely
crow calling to crow.

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For it speaks to me, too.

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I am part of one great
creature with him.

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If he has voice, I have ears.

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On the one hand, it may be
as the sound of children

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at school, saying
their A-Bs, A-Bs

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On the other, far in the
wood-fringed horizon,

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the cawing of the crows
out at their long recess.

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Children who got dismissed.

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