The Comma in the Sky
The Comma in the Sky
I asked the crow about time
as it rested on the same wire,
black as a question
older than answers.
It came each dawn
like a pause offered to the sky,
not ending the day,
not beginning it either.
Its cry fell rough,
like a temple bell rubbed thin by years,
counting days the way a river counts steps,
by touching, then letting go.
The crow did not carry hours.
It trusted return,
the way breath trusts the chest,
leaving and coming back
without fear.
I spoke of years loosening from my hands,
of clocks leaning heavily on my back.
The crow closed one eye,
as if time were simply
a place to sit.
Then it lifted itself into the air,
without farewell or delay,
leaving the wire waiting,
faithful.
That is when I understood
what it had always known,
Time is not something we hold.
It is something
we meet again.
Reflection: The Comma in the Sky
This poem begins with a simple question. The speaker asks a crow about time. The crow does not answer with words. It answers by returning to the same wire, again and again. This quiet repetition becomes its teaching.
The crow appears each morning like a pause in the sky. It does not announce a beginning or an ending. It reminds us that life continues gently, without hurry. Time is shown not as a force that pushes us, but as a space we pass through.
The crow’s call is rough, yet familiar, like an old temple bell worn smooth by years of use. It does not count days. It simply moves through them, the way a river touches the ground and lets go. Time flows, but it does not cling.
Unlike humans, the crow does not carry hours or deadlines. It trusts return. It leaves and comes back naturally, the way breath leaves the body and returns without fear.
The speaker then speaks of human life, of years slipping away and clocks pressing heavily. In contrast, the crow rests calmly, as if time were only a place to sit for a while.
When the crow finally flies away, it does so without drama. The wire remains, waiting. This moment brings understanding. Time is not something we can hold or control. It is something we meet again, through mornings, memories, and quiet returns.
The poem gently teaches that peace comes when we stop chasing time and begin standing still within it.