On a Tuesday morning

getting drunk on beer and coke and cognac

my soul dancing Epicurean wistfuls to itself,

before the raining sun is rising.

All town still in deep slumber

except for that couple of dogs

walking their yawning proprietors

through the morning shivers

and over dew-wet meadows,

I sit in a park, watching a crow

jumping up and down

piercing the ground with its


Then suddenly it turns around

and yells at me:

“hey man, why ya watchin?

You kinky or what?”

Almost fell from my bench

from laughing while it

kept on picking and jumping,

picking and jumping and

picking and jumping and jumping

and picking and picking and picking and jumping and jumping

along, until it disappeared beyond my horizon.


I mean, I am a close friend of the Crow*, the people just as much as the birds

but  that will be covered in the next poem.

*The Apsáalooke** Sioux very much need to be appraised by this very minor poet here. ;-)

** that is the autoethonym as James  Matisoff would put it