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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