The Crows Know Your Face

Don’t get caught in a line up with a crow          Behind the glass, the bird can drawYou from life with a pencil in its beak.          And are there three or two that talkIn the tree over your shield-covered corpse?          Prepare for your eternal traipse:Eyes pecked, flesh nipped—or buried near the lochs.          What a difference one crow makes.That roost of them seems innumerable,          But each can pick your facial tellSo count out poker. I wouldn’t even          Try Rook. As much as we’ve drivenThe birds from our fields, they return.          Nothing thicket, nothing thornWill keep them from being our only bird,          Ian Frazier says. From them, one wordIs worth a thousand of our tongue and grooves.          The small eclipse of the crow givesThe briefest respite from the prodding sun,          And aren’t you pleased by that dark pin,A single beat of patience before you          Recognize your body belowAnd you its only mourner with a downe          Derrie derrie derrie downe downe.