Silently, the crows drift on down–
a shadow-play on an empty lawn
just spring-stripped of wintertime.
Their white-ringed eyes scour for
what is hidden under the surface–
treasure that lives deep in the earth.
Heads bob into fresh, green grass,
stitching together all the tender bits
into provisions buzzing with ideas.
Big as small dogs, they’ve learned
much from all of their harvest, but
save discussion till up in the trees.
Full, and rustling in the leaves, they
stroke the branches like whetstones,
to hone and clean shiny black beaks.
I bring them bowls full of dog kibble,
soon finished, as a peace offering.
They bark for more then turn to leave.
At the first pale brushstrokes of dawn
they return: more food for the promise
to take my little Yorkie off the menu.
Still, balancing high up in a pin oak,
a red-tailed hawk gives no such vow–
there’s a cry, talons, tumble to the drive.
My dog, broken, gone. I grieve for her,
but I understand the story. Not for you.
All you said was swept away from me.
I pretend to think that promises matter,
but promises are like fences in a field
ravaged by windstorms and hard frost.
Foolish, joyous and without uncertainty,
we pledge to what life we cannot know,
hoping that one moment lasts us forever.
