Old Crow froghops
through the fallen leaves.
Mumbles to his murder a strange thing:
There are bones here where there never was meat.
Not even reek of rot to us. No worm, no parasite.
Not so strange, caws Crooked-Winged:
These bones need not be new.
Old as your claws? When was your last taste of ripe?
We can tell no time here in reek of rot.
One word waits here only, and we see only you.
Old Crow crests his beak,
Calls his murder to council with the worms,
Conspire with what lives in dirt:
They know other ways round reek of rot
To tell a dead thing’s age.
They converse for a sparrow’s life.
Other birds pass by and are born again.
Crooked-Winged cocks a black-burned eye
At the one among worms that speaks:
When we came here these bones were new,
As new to death as to your rage,
Left here cleaned of reek and rot.
Who made this kill was never hungry.
Who made this kill was never sane.
The murder acclaims its acquittal
To the memory of Old Crow, now passed by.
Crooked-Winged runs rampant over open ground,
Believing he can still take flight.
January 2010