When I was a boy
everyone shot crows –
god-given right –
though I was sorry

for them I thought them
malevolent too, all black
& bloodt; one night dad
brought home six babies,

caged them with plywood,
staples, and chicken wire.
The Crows made no noise.
I fed them toast & scraps;

the cage remained a week
then suddenly it was empty –
I pressed my face into wire –
the screen smelled of crow, rust

bread and bacon rubbings.
Released, they must have cawed
excitement; I envied their wings,
their undisguised hatred & committed

cold black eyes which held my own
when I fed them peanuts. They
scorned my sympathy and jabbed
my fingers without apology.