Crow

By

Years now he's shrieked

from the pine, eyed my patio

doors for the customary

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shudder of curtains.

I've left my desk, a sink

full of dishes,

my parents long-distance

to rush the kitchen for old

bread, a pancake or two.

He flaps from the branch

as I slide the glass open, spin

waffles, doughnuts, biscuits

from my hands. He pounces,

pecks, and swallows, or stacks

and sweeps them away, then

crows for more.

From the window I remember

how the limb used to

quiver when he perched. Now

the whole tree is a lover

waving goodbye.

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