A crow flew into the tree outside my window.
It was not Ted Hugh's crow, or Galway's crow.
Or Frost's, Pasternak's, or Lorca's crow.
Or one of Homer's crows, stuffed with gore,
after the battle. This was just a crow.
That never fit in anywhere in life,
or did anything worth mentioning.
It sat there on the branch for a few minutes.
Then picked up and flew beautifully
out of my life.
by Raymond Carver
from When Water Comes Together With Other Water
Vintage Books, 1986