One Caw

by

Magazine



Against the snow they’re silhouettes,  

These crows, how many hundreds

Burdening branches, these

Blunt-scissors-&-construction-paper

Kindergarten cut-outs, these

Rorschach blots, sloppy calligraphy,

Or jagged wounds, the sky torn,

But not political, if that’s possible.

Then a blast scatters the murder

& any direction they flee is wrong.

Smoke on the hillside. The soldier

Stares, rifle tensed on one shoulder.

He’s looking me over, wondering who I am.

I’ve seen this scene in films, Russian novels,

Old Master oils, Pathé newsreels.

Or on CNN—smoke in the city,

Schoolchildren scattered among rubble—

If that’s possible—or blue sky, shade trees,

Suburban sprawl. The police car stops.

The boy stares. How many hundreds.

One caw, then silence.

Something horrible about to happen.