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?