When Crow was white he decided the sun was too white.
He decided it glared much too whitely.
He decided to attack it and defeat it.
 
He got his strength up flush and in full glitter.
He clawed and fluffed his rage up.
He aimed his beak direct at the sun’s centre.
 
He laughed himself to the centre of himself
 
And attacked.
 
At his battle cry trees grew suddenly old,
Shadows flattened.
 
But the sun brightened—
It brightened, and Crow returned charred black.
 
He opened his mouth but what came out was charred black.
 
“Up there,” he managed,
“Where white is black and black is white, I won.”

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