A hole   A mushroom-cloud
Grown into round woods
I will be tall if you would
You hide   I would be the shadow
Crow   Crow
Stop over the meadow
Prowling magicians in black cloak
Fan gusts of fallen leaves to float
Sing them into bird song aloud
Eyes   Eyes
Quietly watching owl
Up to the treetop
Squirrel rides its tail flying
Covers its ears   Refuses to hear
Rustling footsteps crumbling
Powdering into its ear
Near gradually nearer
A folktale bumps into me
Shocks to an extreme
Nightmare unwillingly awoke
Under the trouser legs of Crow Woods