parade, ..em, crow

Feet human, canine and wheeled.

Something strikes me as desirable but unattainable: a poem comprised in less than one word, a half articulated sound, repository of half meanings,  carried away by the wind. Fading, gone.  Ing.

In Mount Pleasant this morning, a crow,  an unusual visitor to this busy street, has found something delectable in the striped area, not quite an island,  in  the middle of the road where vehicles are not supposed to go. Despite the traffic moving in both directions he persists, pecking  frantically at the tarmac between the opposing streams. Only when a car edges too close to him does he flap up into the air to settle on the roof of a bus shelter, only to return when there is a pause in  the traffic. I watch from a distance as he is driven away again,  this time into the branches of a  plane tree. A few minutes later he appears to have given up for, higher up the hill, I see him flying slowly above the road, perhaps looking for a repeat of the taste sensation which was worth  risking wing and tail for.