."There are no words to capture the infinite depth ofcrowiness in the crow's flight.."--Ted Hughes, Winter Pollen
Crows do not have retirementhomes to go to when finallytheir wings break down
No one takes them inwith a sigh and sayssit here for a bit
while I bring youa cup of raw wormto help keep your head
swivelling, on the lookoutfor fledglings or the dead,the eagle making you
flock and divethat white untouchable pateNo one guides them gently
into their last years,takes account of theirfinal movements or hears
their calls, their stout beaksopening without soundas if thirsting,
their inky heads againstthe starchy white linen,constant television nearby
They fold up in the curbin the August heat,the sheen gone from wings
They no longer liftout of the heapno other crow will touch
nor even admit,passing by withoutan exploratory peck
leaving their own kindto gulls, rats, worms, the municipalityTo keep the black
ideal of ravenousnessalive, they hop and lift offand cruise past windows
where old men catch their flashand are sent off dreamingof their own unequalled speed and grace
the guns they once heldin their long arms and the damagethey shook from the air
