I think they don't envy anyone or anything -
not the tiger, not the emperor, not even the philosopher.
Why should they?
The wind is their friend, the least tree is home.
Nor is melody, they have discovered, necessary.
Nor have they delicate palates; without hesitation they will eat
anything you can think of -
corn, mice, old hamburgers -
swallowing with such hollering and gusto
no one can tell whether it's a brag
or a prayer of deepest thanks. At sunrise, when I walk out,
I see them in trees, or on ledges of buildings,
as cheerful as saints, or thieves of the small job
who have been, one more night, successful -
and like all successes, it turns my thoughts to myself.
Should I have led a more simple life?
Have my ambitions been worthy?
Has the wind, for years, been talking to me as well?
Somewhere, among all my thoughts, there is a narrow path.
Mary Oliver, Crows [extract]
