It’s nib dry glass thirsting for ink
Leaving no mark
No trace upon blank page
For the soft hand refuses to press so deep
Press so hard
To rip such words into life
When silence offers the better option.
Crow sings, reaching out with many voices then answering some distant some close yet all carry on the evening wind,
Pounding heart heavy in repose upon the floor listens; returns the pen, speaks no more.