The Crow of Charlevoix Inn
There he stands at the utmost tower,
gawking at the weather vain,
waiting for his Easterly wind,
scouring the porous ground for nuts and treasures to gain -
The Crow of Charlevoix Inn.
He squawks and wallows on the hour,
calling to the fair-goers and passers-by,
about the fire he witnessed in the northern woods,
on his travels across the Westward Road to the promised honey dew rind -
The Crow with the limping foot.
He wanders his gaze across the long dead fodder
as the Fish Fairing era crawls with its cane,
and the dawn of the Airy Wind billows again,
thawing soils reveal their underbelly's dry fruitless bane,
To the crow and his shameless sins.
His cries crecendo ever louder
- his enigma airstreams in the sky -
as he contemplates if the other fowl will bring
themselves to the fields that are blind -
the crow that composes like a king.
He spreads his pious, the black velvet martyr.
His futile days will pass in time.
He is dangerous. He is passive. His time has arrived to leave this bloodstained cavern.
The shifting tides collide.
Ladies and gentlemen, the crow of Charlevoix Inn.
