Crow with Straw
A faceful makes for fluttery flying
through the whisper-warm April afternoon.
Suddenly I’m alert to crows. He
stop-hops in a flare of indigo wing,
tilts that outrageous beakful
my way. Santa Crows?
Jerry Garcia of the Crows? Up again,
head-down helicopter takeoff of crows,
pumping directly across the road and into trees,
a truss of old grass, blustering up
around the eyes: Marilyn on the Steam Grate
of the Crows. Gone up the alley
of greening trees, not a stem dropped,
gifts to deliver.
All of the crows are sainted now. No
more staggery cluster of stop-and-go travel,
wobbling home to darken the trees of Loring Park
with ominous watchful fruit.
No lone lookout teetering on the top twig,
giving gang sign, hooting down, murder to follow.
No roadkill stop-and-squat, dancing with Pontiacs
for a mouthful of fresh squirrel.
I’ve stopped, half-astride the sidewalk.
It seems too soon for industry. Eggs will
click and crack in avenging frost. Too soon,
I say to the next one. Doesn’t listen,
doesn’t veer that crisp glide from light
to light. I am attentive to crows,
chin up, the taste of twigs in my mouth.
Dave Motes