The crow flies across the sky away from all troubles,
the wind whipping through her wings.

She basks in the sun as if it were a precious gift.

She doesn’t have a voice like a scream piercing through the air.
Her voice is firm.
Never complacent.
Yet
docile.

Like a vulture, she only takes what no one wants.

Everyone thinks crows are menacing and go to graveyards, but they are kind like vultures.

Whenever she comes down to perch, she knows the sky will always claim her once again.