"Just for a year," he said when he moved his mother in.

Crows of the Lower Order


Eight crows perch subserviently

Eyes petulant, waiting

Delegated to the lower rungs of the electric tower.

A hawk above them preens in his perch.

Today’s catch, squirrel or rat,

His beak poised, a chisel ready.

Impatient, two crows hop upward.

The hawk flaunts his wingspan; they retreat.

Twin jet trails split the cyan sky, cars roar in the distance.

I move on, alone with my dogs,

My heart a scavenged tendon,

My home, no longer my own.


Copyright 2007, Eileen Clemens Granfors