Half of a sestina...

This should have three more stanzas, but I'm stuck and I'm getting the feeling that this was way to rigid of a form for me to try at the moment since structured poetry is very much not my thing. So here is half of a sestina, or all of a nothing, to the crow that always squawks at me on the way to work and to the resident poet laureate of the cup, our friend Crow.



You lift your coarse voice from the sky above
and throw yourself down on silent charred wings.
Wind streams by me, the result of your fall,
turning my hair to feathers that chase you.
I am the colored shadow of your black;
gliding, walking, we both travel this road.

Wind rushing by like a great storm of wings,
Air becomes feathers all grasping at you.
From the wire you watch this empty road
As indistinct voices echo stark black,
Murderous friends awaiting your fall;
The moon also watching, soft light above.

Will you be here when warm days turn to fall
Asleep on a wire, shadow cross the road?
I will still be walking, watching for you
Searching the shadows as clouds boil above
We’ll be dreaming of a sky filled with wings
Your wings above me, the sky also black.