-now awake-

the sparrows are going crazy

and by their numbers seem

to shake the head of the leafy elm,

and the coarseness at the resonator

in the throat of the crow is amplified

by the early morning hour.

shrieking.

bloodcurdling.

something's going on.

there’s an otherworldliness

to the crow's stature,
its stately posture in the manner

that it speaks of its power,

its indifference to others

and of the sparrow at the face
of its own fundamental station.

It's difficult

to measure the physical

presence of the crow until

one stands upon the rail

of the backyard deck
at the sliding glass doors,

a lifeless sparrow

hung by a wing in its beak

in the midst of a mourning elm

in a deeply, greying dawn.