I love to walk listening to the crows' conversations.
I love to lie still watching the crows wheeling overhead.
The crow that loves to sway in the wind— I am drawn to it.
When crows play in the wind, I watch them intently.
The crow that suddenly springs from a tree and takes to flight— I have an old friendship with such a crow.
The crow left behind as the flock flies on— I feel a tenderness for it. So many in this life have gone away, leaving me alone!
When spring arrives, do crows call out? Or do they call when spring is over? Whenever they call, that cry is dear to me.
When crows quarrel among themselves, I love to watch them. Their harsh voices are far better than the melodious voice of that lover who left me, deceiving me.
At evening the weary crow returning home to its children— that one is close to my heart.
I think I am living on two kinds of light— the black of night and the black of crows!