A crow followed me home one night,
Perched outside it gave me a fright
As it looked at me, and in my sight,
Nine taps it gave on my window that night.

I shooed it away, and away it flew,
I slept that night, but come the next,
That little black crow returned anew.

Peculiar as it may be,
The crow continued to look at me,
And like before, with quick succession,
Eight taps it gave before its ascension.

Every night was the same as before,
The bird was always back for more,
And the next two nights continued its game,
It tapped upon my window the same.

Seven and Six, it let me know,
A countdown of nights, or days left still,
I couldn’t care less about that crow,
Nor did I care for what I did sow.
But why, why did it show,
That the days were numbered, and so oddly so?

Five and four were tapped along,
The ritual continued like a song,
I listened close and counted the days,
Until the bird would go away.

Unaware as the bird tapped three,
I couldn’t imagine as it struck two,
What the bird who tapped once more,
Was actually trying to do.

Finally, it came but did only stare,
Through my window with a sharp little glare,
As I looked, only then did I see,
Its eyes were looking just beyond me.

Then I knew as I turned around,
The meaning to this bird and its little countdown,
No warning it conveyed, nor message it foretold,
The meaning of the taps was much more cold.

For all those nights I could recount,
Those taps that were given before sunup,
The crow was lonely, and trying to count,
All the days left till its master caught up.

Credited to Ryan Brennaman

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