The hands that cover the face of the leaf

as it grows, gold-ripened, it dries its stem

in a ritual as tree remembered

from when it was young and yearned for its field

where though common would grow mighty as oak

and rustle with the birds in its tree bough

as then it would have a canopy home

where music was made each day before dawn

and every little being shade covered

crows would hold counsel reciting their caws

as they did today when as I listened

Crow squacked in numbers of 2s, 3, and 4

his refrains returned on two beat patterns

and with one 5 count reached the crescendo