I miss the hawks
who have nested
farther away this year.
All last spring
they swooped across
my back yard,
to rest in the tall eucalyptus
my desk looks out on,
their urgent call
demanding my full attention.

I think of Jeffers saying
he’d rather kill a man
than hawk,
punishments being equal –
or words to that effect,
of how I yearned for hawks
and then they came.

But this is crow’s year,
as every year is.
I hear their caw
in every corner
of our little town,
our very little town
with more crows per capita,
I suppose, than people.
An absurd idea I know,
but then so is the crow.

Crow in the eucalayptus,
crow in the oaks,
crow in the willow
and in the reeds too.
Crow on the phone lines,
the electricity wires,
the cable connections.
Crow on the garbage cans,
the outhouses, the gates
and fence posts.
Crow standing on the trail
waiting for me to pass.
Crow walking down the road.