To the crow

I used to hate crows, scavengers of the earth

squawking, snatching, swamping the skies

when one died, shot by that stray bullet

frightening us into the house.

But then you said that crows were good

that when they eat the food

offered to the dead it is as though

the dead have returned.

Since then I feed the crow sometimes,

I do not turn away, irritated,

when it pecks at my window,

cawing through the glass.

Have you returned then?

Do you see the world through its squawk?

Or is that just wishful thinking

and that crow merely sentient of the dark?

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