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A Lesson from the Crow Files

by Ashley Stinson

Crow woman feeds us.

It’s as simple as that.

She come out every morning, with her black feather-hair

And her bucket full of bread

(Sometimes there is meat.)

And she turn her shiny joy-face

Up toward the tree where we wait

And she fling her bucket outward

(Sometimes, she holds some back for the old ones.)

And we come down all caw-caw swoopy-swoopy

And we eat.


Crow woman has new man.

New man doesn’t feed us.

He come out with his gold man-hair

And stomp and slam and bark like a dog

(Sometimes, he slaps crow-woman.)


Today, crow woman doesn’t feed us.

She come out all saggy-weepy

And lie and lie to blue hat man

And cover her swell-face with her black feather-hair.

Blue man doesn’t know she feeds us.

So he get into his red glow-light car

Radio all squawky squawky

And drive away.


Today, crow woman doesn’t feed us

We sit in our tree all waity watchy

And listen to gold man bluster and howl like hurricane wind.

But crow woman doesn’t come out at all.


Today, gold man feed us.

He come out all twitchy-empty and stompy-smashy

And we swoop, beaks all shreddy shreddy, caw caw, tearing tearing

And we feast

And when we finish, gold man’s mouth all screamy-screamy

And his eye holes all bloody-drippy like fresh meat.

(Today there was meat.)

And we fly back up to our tree.


Crow woman come out again.

Crow woman feeds us.

It’s as simple as that.

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