Its only a short flight for a curious crow

from country’s carrion to the city’s illusion.

The stars are hidden, light kills the night.

Molly and I come down the mountain

to unnatural night noises of drunken

omnivores, loud in their ignorance

of water vegetation and blood.

In the metallic carbon scented morning

the city cafes and bookshops fill with

the swelling crowd of Babylon.

The hiss of steam, the froth of busy ideas,

warmth and noise of shared ambitions.

The odd poet sitting alone, tuning inspiration.

My blue heeler looks for yappers under

the cafe tables, fed on cereal bits

as dry as politicians promises.

We pass girls chatting mysteriously

about last nights indiscretions.

There is poetry in their laughter, for

the flowers of ambition can be picked twice.