The Crow
A baby crow
cowers in the street,
trying to hide from kids
from dogs
from well-meaning people.
Its parents fret noisily,
its mother raps her beak
sharply, angrily, furiously
on the telephone wire.
A war party of crows
gathers in the giant firs
to protect the tiny one
but how?
Cars go by, slowing, swerving.
When I pick it up
we are both shaking.
Black forms descend
on murderous wings
and I believe them.
I hold the living child carefully out
so all the midnight eyes can see
and this is a moment of disbelief.
I carry her across the street
and set her under a bush
and leave her for her people.
The giant firs grow quiet.
Night falls.
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