Crows, dirty crows routing a hawk,
the swim and swoop of black
shriekers, 30 of them at least
and the hawk heading out.
They own everything now: trees
with their dresses torn. They stake out
the corners of my yard, at dawn
they land on my roof.
Along the railing one marches
toward my bird-feeder, fat flesh-eater
scaring the songbirds. One
rips at the garbage. To hell
with live-and-let-live. They're screaming
now in the woods, on the shoulders
of yellow weeping oaks. They fuck
their sisters. They eat their babies.
How come they're never dead
on the side of the road?
And what about the meek and lame?
And the glory of the innocent? What
about the thumb-sized heart-
broken birds? The ones who
die in their sleep, their long beaks
warm from probing flowers' throats
and answering the trumpets.
Their emerald bellies heave.
One last time they heave,
having worked their whole lives
to stay aloft.