WHAT THE CROWS TELL ME

by Willow Runningwater

Caw, caw, caw—I hear the crows.
I’m half-asleep, wanting to go back to my unfinished dream.
In the distance, I hear them squabbling like an old married couple.
Light is starting to show in the eastern sky, beginning a new day.
The sounds come in the window with the cool mountain air.
I stir in my bed, listening to the crows circling over our yard.
It’s too early; I’m not ready to get up yet.

Last year, crows ate our corn, pulling it up as it sprouted.
Neighbors across the big meadow behind us,
Complained that their seedlings were also gone.
I replanted, stringing shiny tape above:
It shimmered in the breeze, kept changing colors.
By fall, we had corn. But our neighbors used no tape,
They grew no corn,
So we gave them some of ours.

Our farms surround a huge meadow.
This is crows’ territory; they loudly say so.
Traveling to and fro, never too far,
Nesting in trees bordering the meadow,
Teaching crows’ ways to their young:
To them, it’s familiar territory—it’s what they know.
They pass it on from year to year.

I see them in the cemetery trees
Behind our house and up a steep hill.
My parents are buried there,
Trees grow amongst the tombstones,
Adorned with plastic flowers, shiny ribbons, bits of medal—
Luring, attracting these crows.

We live together, like neighbors in close apartments
As in poor city neighborhoods.
The crows caw, caw like
The sounds of families—yelling, singing, crying—
Playing loud music—mingling in the air.
Intruding on needed privacies.
But both crow-city-dwellers and ourselves:
We manage to survive and understand.
We hear the message:
To live our lives, we must share this earth.



 

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