The Crow

I did not save it.
That’s the first truth.

It stood in the road
with one wing folded wrong,
black lacquer split along the bone.

It watched me
with an eye that knows I,
that understands traffic,
that has learned what human means.

It slowed.
I could have reached.
The space between us
was not large.

But the crow did not beg.

It did not scatter.

It did not challenge itself
to flee.

It held its ground
like something that already decided.

I thought of hands.

Of lifting.

The way angels do
in stories stiff in hide and faith.

The car behind me inhaled.

The road argued with the brake.

The day kept going.

So I stayed.

Behind the car,
feathers lifted,
no shadow, no cry,
no sudden absolution.

Only later did I feel it:
the weight of having chosen
nothing remarkable.

Crows remember faces.

They carry debts.

They gather in mourning.

If it calls me back,
I will not pretend I know it not.

I knew
what I was doing
when I kept my feet
still to the road.