Two crows on a fence,
disciples, still as iron ornaments,
beaks locked open and raised in prayer
for Godot to come and pare away the sun,
waiting still and matte for the blue evening.
Will he come?
And will the cat wake up,
slit focus amber eyes and stretch,
wonder if desiccated kibbles are better still
than the trouble with instinct, feathers,
beaks and dust on a dead lawn?

Gavin W Sisk
Dec., 2020