On Being an Unpaid Writer

Everybody seems to be still full asleep - the first bus, the closed eyed shutters in the buildings, the butterflies in my green garden.

On the electric wire, two young crows, a wing distance between the two of them.
She's looking straight ahead.
His head is turned towards her, his beak moving.

My window is closed, I cannot decipher the crow crow monologue, yet for sure I won't open the window and invade their privacy.

She stays still, unmoved.
He ventures two tiny steps closer.

Immediately she takes flight, disappearing among the trees.
He stands still, his beak raised to the rosy fingered sky.

Then off he flies. Where to?

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read it in Russian; in Polish;