Of Crows

The beauty of crows should not be forgotten.
When colored bullets race down the road’s black veins,
Their short, broad wings deliver them skyward.

A crow’s tastes are unsentimental, a testament

To the infinite hunger life wants satisfied.
One must be willing to consume the whole world.

Of the crow’s tool-making, little needs to be said.
More fascinating is their discernment, how they use them
Only when beak or talons will not otherwise suffice.

When Noah received the olive branch from the dove,
He wept, not for joy, but for his lost crow,
The beloved bird that played games with straws.

Yes, they unsettle, like a genuine thought of death.
But what of their raucous way of swinging on branches
Without fear they’ll break? Isn’t joy as unsettling as a crow?

And what bird is more likely to survive our apocalypse?
It won’t be because we’re alike. Crows have nothing human
About them and thrive without reference to us, like God.