Two crows stalk a dead squirrel
on a double-yellow line. Their coal eyes search
for cars, cats and eye me as I jog by the road’s shoulder.
They hop, wings bared, squawking
and circling, fencing glossy beaks.
On gravel I dodge broken glass, rusting nails.
Around the bend, looking back,
crows lumber across a meadow to pine trees
and vanish in shade. They caw in uproar.
As I near them on the trail, they hush
They glare at me from branches,
wings a parasol of sheen in sun shaft.
One eyes me on a stump,
swivels its head as I pass.
The Nazarene eyed the temple and spoke
of stones crumbling to dust,
of stars dropping like hail
on lanes, meadows, trees,
the sun black as a crow’s eye.