Elegy for a Crow
by James K. Zimmerman
you’ve got a sick crow in your yard
the neighbor said
but I know this: crows don’t get sick and
sit around on the grass
no
they sit around on the grass to die
I looked at it closely
primordial raptor beak an elevator
caught between the first floor
and the basement
nictitating membrane still a candle
stuttering to say its name
in hovering darkness
I agreed to come back later
we don’t come get dead crows
the USDA hotline said
just shovel it into a bag and
throw it in the garbage
I came back later
my crow was belly up
wings splayed unthinkably
a ship’s hulk in a dusky harbor
flies hoping to salvage the eyes
I picked it up gently
the stiffening black body
with a plastic bag and put it in another
a pine box for an unmarked grave
tied the bags shut
threw my crow away
and with a last breath
whispered goodbye