The Crow and the Pitcher
The crow was dry, with a stiff dust-cloud flight.
It longed to drink, to ease a rusty throat,
And knowing good water, dropped into the valley
For a pitcher, a vessel, or a stream bed running.
It longed to drink, to cure a curdled throat.
The bird found good water, locked deep in the valley
In a pitcher; a vessel, near a stream bed cracking
The jug was ivy-tangled, hid by a guardian yew.
The crow cried over water, barred from the world
And the jug became a well— its source echo-long down
Ringed by bricks, blocks and man-made forms
And the bird dropped one wish to its staunch reflection.
The well stirred at source from the echo-long down
It talked fluidly with blocks and man-made forms.
The bird dropped another wish in its loose reflection
The water drew closer; shining for the crow’s eye.
The water babbled cures and swept past bricks and blocks.
The bird dropped a wish into a rising tide.
The water drew closer, shining at the moon’s face.
Both shapes flowed through age-old time and dust.
The crow’s one wish was to be fluid in thinking
The water drew closer, rising to the bird’s thirst.
The rivers flowed forth. The crow was restored.
The bird would yet survive, and felt itself soar.
The rivers rushed forward, not ceasing conversation
Restoring ebb and flow and water-locking all cures
Out-living the blocks and the man-made in the valley
The crow became a chalice, and brought forth blossom, on a wingbeat.
by Suzanne Iuppa
for A Drop in the Ocean
Spring 2015
Jane Lloyd Francis 
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