By Erick Wilund
Untitled, Thanksgiving.
The crows all knew the food would come
The fowl and figs and tarts and rum
A taste or more
Was what they craved
Thus empty bellies would be saved
With gleaming gaze they bided time
And softly sang the Raven’s Rhyme…
“Oh let us eat down to the bone,
To pick and peck until we moan,
With bellies full to bursting soon,
Then start again till light of moon.”
Erick Wilund is a writer, born and raised in New York. He writes in order to process what he is presented with, and to organize what he stores in his mind’s attic. He currently lives in the outer boroughs of New York City, amongst the trees.