What do these crows say? Certainly, they’re not wasting their voice. Perched on the branches of the bay tree, they don’t fly in the sizzling sunlight. Long, short, swift, slow, vibrant, weak…Variations in the length and the size of their cry affirm their cawing is not meaningless. How can they be close-mouthed about the things around? They are never opportunists. Like the black oyster, there’s life within the harsh shell of their voice. Theirs is a pretension-free accent, conveying true emotions. Their raw communication is worthier than the polished talk with the hidden hypocrisies. Though undeveloped, their language never lacks warmth. It’s the tongue of the heart, spontaneous and syntax-less. Previously published in The Literary Hatchet.