I saw a black crow through a cracked window
and I don’t know what it means.

I am stitched into superstition and the older
I get the more salt I throw over my shoulder.

I wish I was wiser or had a wise owl for an advisor.

But what does the crow know that I do not and
and why don’t I mend the window pane?

I’ll see the crow again and wonder what again, throw more salt again, cross my fingers though the arthritis gives me pain
I’d do it all again and again.

I wonder what the crow knows.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.