Someone has to keep watch. The dog’s too old.
Dear crow on your nest, in the blue spruce,
your whole body vibrates, but vertically,
like a feathered piston. Should I
look away? Tail waggle. Ink-sheen of breast.
I almost feel your beak, probing the nest:
in and out, the pliant sutures go in.
Between prying and poking, what if
one day we mothers go too far, harm
these fragile homes?
Ah, little wife, you embody
an answer: I watch the torn
places, slowly rewoven. Is this prayer?
What is it like, to carry no guilt
over failing your family? Some say,
Birds have secret knees,
under their feathers. Standing again,
I feel less alone. Sister crow,
let us be one, in instinct:
stay with the nest, tend the young.