The morning rain grows on wet crows 
In white bodies under their nights
Their feathers a thing of the night.
Becoming is a larval thing between.
By noon they will surely  outgrow it.
Then they will be a thick dark foliage
And shadows, part of a big picture.

The noon turns them to black crows.
In the noon they wave their  heads
In the branch,on their screwy necks.
They walk into our several siestas,
Their wings flapping on our eyelids.

At times they  pick up our soap cakes
And our princesses' jewels in bathing. 
They drop thirsty stones in water pots.
They peck  goddess's breasts for fruit.
By evening they are ancestors on walls
Come to peck our rice balls,one by one.

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