Smoke exuded from the end of his pipe,

and like an ashy phantom, lingered under the wooden ceiling. 

The artist finished his sketch, the black wings, the curious yellow eyes.

He blew onto the paper, like God breathed life into dust.

“Go, be loved… Fly, and be alive!”

The man threw the page out the window

which opened high above the shanty town of Rio.

As the paper fell, the crow took in its first breath.

A talon emerged, reaching out to the third dimension.

Then the breast, then the wings.

The dusty crow flew towards the sandy sky,

While the page fell God knows where.