Crows

—for Tim, on hearing of his father's death

They bray from rooftops, black donkeys

Skin like a thin rubber glove

BBs cannot kill them:  only those

From the gun of Tim Graham

One tooth chipped like a wing

One shot kisses black feathers

Leaves a little nibble on the neck

O black angel atop an evergreen

*

Your father, too, fell like a crow

A wobbling target, stumbling

A net of awkward arms

A bed of needles on the grass

Did his flock, too, circle above

Calling his name in a round black ring?

Yemassee, 2008