The Twelve Days of Christmas: The Third Day

Today I read this poem by Canadian poet P.K. Page.  I think that my dear husband, bird watcher and admirer of Corvids everywhere, will like it.  So:

                                                              The Crow

By the wave rising, by the wave breaking
high to low;
by the wave riding the air, sweeping the high air low
in a white foam, in a suds,
there
like a churchwarden, like a stiff
turn-the-eye-inward old man
in a cutaway, in the mist
stands 
the crow.

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