November 6, 2014 (J)
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20141106                    Senses                    Animal Souls

I watched some crows this morning,
playing in an early November bluster.
Wave upon wave,
now going east with the wind,
now west against it.

No sailor on any of the seven seas
can tack so well as one of these.

Now up, now down, now left then down.
One flies north, another south,
another east,
but the flock drifts to and fro.

Some stall in the wind,
remaining still to the trees
for several flap and darts.

Then banks to the wind and soars
descending the slopes of the wind,
30 MPH faster than the 30 MPH wind.

Joining another, perhaps its mate,
in synchronous dance,
waving together till parting again.

It seems so energetic,
this fighting of the wind,
and seems so futile
as flying V of geese does not.

It is not hunting, I think, nor sexual
except maybe showing off.

I suspect play is a play,
Jonathan Livingston Seagull desire
has infected these playful crows.

Perhaps I see play where no play occurs,
projecting my wishes onto my senses.
But corvid play is seems still to me.
Do you too so seem?
Perhaps they even dream.
    added to "Crows a' Play" posted at HelloPoetry