Crows Save the World
Your gift to me, acceptance of my grief,
a quiet, steady presence where I sat
mourning for sounds of rain, of claws, of bill,
of ticking clocks, is sweeter still
for growing in the carrion of need.
Crows save the world from overwhelming rot.
Without them we would pick our way
through slippery, steaming, stinking shards of death.
The little that they know communicated loud
for other crows to hear, deaf crows do not survive.
A poem, gentle Michael said, can be the gift
one gives a friend. Far better to have shared my loss
and not pretend.
Crows Save the World appeared in the 1999 edition
of Berkshire Review.
Copyright © 1999 Miryam Ehrlich Williamson. All rights reserved.