Sadness comes from a quiet pen,

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.