Fuck you, you crows, you
and your cawing. You crows
in the high tree branches
behind my house who caw
at me, at one another, at the world
walking by. You crows
who float on black wings,
who lose feathers that spiral
down to us, feathers we pick up in
fascination: the slender hollow bone
becoming broad and leafed, sleek
when stroked in one direction.
Fuck you, you crows, and your thoughtless
flight, your hop-skip dance, your curved
beaks that eat our carrion, the dead
squirrels we leave in the middle of the street.
You congregants of the giant gray sequoia.
You quorum there, you crows, cackling,
You. You crows.
In your black eyes, your gnarled feet.
In the dark heart of wanting that cannot be filled
with rotten flesh or day-old bread crumbs. You wish
you were ravens. You crows. You bringers of death
who laugh and then are stilled, suddenly silent
at the hollow sound your laughter makes.