Caw

Whose branch this is I think you know.

By how my (question-marks as) claws inscritch the bark.

How my worry-work along this bough

runs back and forth (and copper-keen) and evermore;

I got mocked and nicked No-Fly Bird

not for nothing.

Not for nothing have I picked this oak.

Though not thicktrunk-ancient as some angel-oak,

it’s sure the highest of our high so suits my lack.

—Charred wings won’t lift; I’ve got no glide

nor span to speak of. Ain’t this my beat : my usual limb.

Ain’t this pecking (carking) pulse

my far and wide.