In the westward sky is a crow's clear caw.
A visceral proof of life.
That there joyously exists more than just our strife.  
It soared mystically deep into the baby blue
and fluffy white blissful unknown.  
In the north sky
gathers a small ****** of crows,
with their chaotic excitable moan.  
A folktale goes that the crows congregate
to hover and decide another crow's fate.
Place a scavenger of death in a vast cheerful sky.
You realize a great many days are void of a why  
They are just proof of life.  
So feel alive!