All too often I look up and see him there
peering down through the oak leaves,
a stowaway from a cloud.
Around the yard he follows me
like a young child with his father,
a keen eye on my every move.
He sees my life:
the ring placed on my finger,
my wife’s, a month after he left;
the grandchildren he never met,
the house I call home.
That’s what I pretend sometimes at least,
whatever gets me through the day,
and today of all days.
To everyone else, he’s just a crow:
a loud nuisance per reputation,
a symbol of death, a bird to shoo away.
They don’t see the beauty in his black feathers;
the curiosity of his ways,
His capacity for quiet that of a sage.
They don’t hear the clicks and coos,
only the harsh caws;
never the rattles, whispers, and wahs.
I call him Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones
Photo of Mr. Jones the crow. This particular crow visits me every day. More than a few times a day actually. You may think I sound crazy. That’s okay. You may also wonder how I can recognize an individual crow. Once you establish a bond with a crow, you no longer wonder that. They act as a collective, but are very individual in their voices and habits.
P.S. They also can identify individual human faces.
