words and being

sprich sprich.
i told the crow.
talk to me.
smooth and black,
all feather and wing,
flight and voice.
then, disheveled, fluffed and folded in itself, on a
tree without leaves, the crow kept silent. still. me too.
i stared at it. she kept silent.maybe she slept.
or he, how would i know.
and why.
sprich sprich.
but being present was more than words.
so.