The juvenile crow’s eyes are blue—
and darken as they age.
The feathers are not black,
but iridescent, purples and greens
reflecting sun. Winging upward
or careful stepping towards the corn,
every last one is unique.
I want to know how they name themselves.
Because humanity is stupid about this.  

Roles are no longer names.
Stop calling me:
Husband-Brother-Son-Lazy
Father-Teacher-Guide-Caregiver
Poet-Gamer-Libtard-Geek
Tree hugger-GenX-Bookworm-Hippie
Human labels are too easy, for the stupid.  

Whoever hung the half-moon
this morning, thank you.