The Crow Flies Straight At Me
The crow flies straight at me, up from the right,
heading for the window where I stand watching
this petty world spin out and down before me.
As the bird sails past, it eclipses the sun
that gilds the underwings of its slick black feathers,
so oiled and polished, ornamented,
like coal, or burnished jet,
to perch on the gutter above my head.
I see it as it passes, I see its entirety
in snapshot detail, an instant life memory.
So big, much bigger than a bird should be,
too big to fly, surely, with the grace
and power and ease it owns.
The downcurved beak, piratical, hard
and weaponised, and the leathered skin
bound around the bones of legs
and talons that float through the air,
just there, right there in front of me.
It is a hard bird, a knowing bird,
strong and cunning, that brooks
no competition from rooks or magpies
or larkabout jackdaws.
It owns this territory, no matter what
man may make of it.
I saw the eyes.
I think the eyes saw me, a man.
I was assessed and judged
and discounted, all at once.