Monday morning on my window sill
There sat a crow looking deathly ill,
Bedraggled, dirty-grey and weak,
With drooping wing and half a beak.
I paused, pitied him , but I was in a hurry,
So I just put out the leftover rice and curry.
Tuesday, I served him an idli-sambar mix,
When I left for tennis practice at six.
By Wednesday his wing had just a slight droop,
Anyway, I gave him some bread and soup.
By Thursday, he’d finally started to fly,
But still came and pecked up a roti gone dry.
I thought, “That’s it, Crow, I’ll say goodbye”,
So on Friday morning, it was a surprise
To hear him cawing as I boiled the rice!
Weekend mornings I used to snooze or rest,
Before this saga of my uninvited guest.
At six every morning , his half-beak taps,
On my window, and he loudly caws and flaps.
Now I’ve an extra mouth to feed,
Not out of pity for his need,
Just exasperated at his greed.
I’m no different, always praying for things,
When my God has given me hands to work with,
And lent my imagination wings!