Young Crows Practice their Floating

Elicit wire against blue sky.
Below, empty orange pronged
parking spaces are not earth;
None of us were born in this.
Let the wire be unknown.
Then crows float without flutter.
Let the wire be common perception.
The mind settles.
Across, a woman wearing bread crust
colored legs, rounds a Honda.
Now four young crows snark, float.
The wire arises in here, creasing the sky.
People pass, dying in their bright-colored
chrome cars. Lonely tinted interiors,
unnecessary empty seats.
Further ahead when the wire is gone
there are no crows.
Every moment is like this.
Every moment is like this.
Call it standard, call it a function,
only a function of what you need.
Solicit sky behind wire.