Into our front window flew a crow
as I sat outside on a summer morn.
Toward me she came in slow glide
stilled wings brushing cool
the air that touched my face.
I turned to watch her walk
drunkenly down the drive
seeing in basement windows
her dazed and dazzling self –
black, beautiful, broken.

She flew away during the day
by evening she was gone –
mended and on the wing?
No. Flying low, again she came
landing hard near where we sat
her pursuers fast behind:
“Caw, caw, cawing….”

Evening’s light gave way to night
as I went outside to see if she lived.
There she lay on a path next the rose
while in a moment more stood and stepped
as I went indoors, trying to let it go
this drama in the life of a crow.

When morning came she was gone
so it seemed, all day long.
In the evening, cool drinks under shade,
I raised my eyes to see
beneath the rose, dead was she.

Close by me she had flown
came once and again and again
at last to stay where she chose.
Did she find sanctuary here
or just the dying light beneath the rose?

What can I know of death for a crow?
I can barely speak or know
my own hurt, disease, suffering,
or what I did to make it so.

Portland, Oregon – August 6, 2019