Gap in the Text

What does a crow do all day? This one’s
Chasing a moth through the grass, as
If he had nothing better to pursue,
No pressing appointments with crow
Friends. There’s a nondescript brown
Sparrow watching him from the shrub,
Tiny glinting eyes and head cocked,
Considering. What to do with the time?
I’m standing alone, waiting to know
What the sparrow thinks of the crow,
Of the passing hours; I believe that both,
All, one day, will turn and speak to me.

No, that’s not it. It’s the overarching joy
In seeing the glassy black feathers against
The infinite variation of green in the grass,
The hop in pursuit of the cabbage moth’s
Erratic pathway through the air. It flits
To the tock of a crow voice: flutter, rest,
Flutter, rest—hop. And the plainest
Of plain birds watching him, too. Like Keats,
I take part in his existence. I shatter
And reform, piece together the moment:
Crow-play and solumn sparrow, this is not
Our world. Ah, however brief, I felt it there--
The narrow circumference of my body
Fell away. I could not think, only see.