Crows like nameless pennants flap the length of the sunrise sky. Ornery, aggrieved, garrulous, landing in one poor man’s rice field, in another, then another. With a tree-stump for a stage, the rooster is a solo crooner. Peahens clamor about him like lustful groupies enchanted by the daybreak and his coxcomb silhouette.
Peter Marcus | Manhattan/Bali: A Jet Lag in Fragments Contents | Mudlark No. 55 (2014)