Black Bird

You know what they do in the movies when a horse goes lame

And I have made the call when my dogs have lost their ability to walk and judged their quality of
life to be taking a down turn

But this crow I happened upon one morning was just lying there,
up against a rock wall banking the edge of the sidewalk. Its head tilted slightly in my direction.

I almost missed it entirely but then spoke softly to it; but nothing.
Eyes blinking back
it's quiet glossy black response.

A still bird on the ground, not moving
with me only inches away seemed not a good sign.
It seemed peaceful though or peacefully dying or
healing or thinking about its options.
My thoughts somewhat the same- is this misery? Should I do something?

Then days later
the crow stood again motionless atop a large rock along the
same wall. A now-lost Maltese Falcon, back from the sea, hoping to blend in.

Finally one last time, in a driveway across the street, with another
corvus friend cawing nearby. A cheerleader or companion or bodyguard,
on point dissuading and random intruder
from a not-well chum, or cousin or mate.

The crow’s now gone or gotten better or worse
or it simply vanished from this bit of geography
to the place that all crows fly to each night, just before dusk.

Never More

Truth in Packaging

I could be a bit misleading, with labeling not to be trusted.

What is inside may not match my ingredient statement with the precision it should

Somethings added but unaccounted for; experience perhaps, Or the lacking of true certification.

Damaged in the transit of life. Re-boxed. Instructions missing. Like new but not.

A bit of old pencil lead still hiding in my palm, below my left ring finger, the scar from the
Creosote splinter from that telephone pole on my left inner thigh. The dog-bite mark on my left
jaw. A few concussions, and many stitches. I once even ate a minnow, whole and alive. I
survived eating way too many salt tablets during hot august Texas football practices; all given
without the luxury of water.

My posterior maintains a strong aversion to corporal punishment, my disdain for buttermilk and
tofu has not abated, small dogs and corduroy pants were never favorites. The smell of rotting
figs in the summer heat reminds me of Shreveport. Their stench sticks in my nose; the taste of
the good ones laid hidden in mom's faux-strawberry spread, depriving me of store-bought jam
for years.

There is a dread in me of being cut and to the metallic taste it brings to my mouth when I even
imagine it. I fell off a ladder last week. It should have altered my future wellbeing in big ways,
but I was lucky. My only thought as I fell through the air was of the tiger-sharp saw teeth of the
pole-saw in my hands. They would surely find me and do their worst. They stayed asleep and
fell to the ground un-sated and only walked with a limp for a while.

If you ever come for me, don't bring a knife- Just shoot me, and be done with it, ok? Whatever
you do, don't take a bite of me, I am surely still pretty high in sodium.

Please do avoid asking me to order in the drive-through, unless you really want to see anxiety
center stage and up close. Something are just better done at the counter.