I want to believe in tenderness that’s gentle as a candle, tender as a single vine growing up a tree, the sweet tones of a sparrow’s song, but I can’t stop looking at those crows across the street, balanced like pegs on a telephone line, and clawing at the roof ridges, clinging to the bare tree limbs. And they’re looking down at me. Crows, ready to eat anything that falls dead from a tree, anything hit by a car and flattened on the road, a badger here or a pigeon there, anything stuck to the ground, supermarket discarded cabbages, carrots, or bits of Sunday’s carvery. And fear keeps my hands clenched in my pockets and my hat on my head. Don’t run. Don’t run. They’ll think it’s all fun, and take wing, to chase, to catch ones prey, and they’re calling out with their chainsaw voices. And I can’t stop looking at those crows looking at me.
Grey mists and a crow’s feast
A few bones to pick at