There is a tree, planted long ago
In a field of cotton, white as snow
A little dove perches
Where the highest branch grows
And down at the base,
Lays a haggard old crow.
He’s close to death, but his eyes are keen
He tells you the tale of what he’s seen.
“Men”, he says,
“men and their greed
taking, always taking,
more than they need.
A deadly sin, an unholy vice,
They ate the forbidden fruit, and paid the price.
But they didn’t just eat from the tree
They planted it,
it took root,
and it grew,
enough that it now shades both me and you.”
The crow then falters, and proceeds to die,
While the tree remains standing, against a free, blue sky.
The little dove looks down,
And her eyes ask me, “Why?”
“Must I stay in this tree,
when I wish to fly?"
Written from “Sunday Morning”