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Much to be said, and good things, about living in the
country. Much also to be said, though, about some of
the other things one will find in the country.
Which I did, the other day. Then wrote about it.
...Then grieved. Let's see if you do the same.
.
...................................................................................................................................
...................................................................................................................................
NB: Consider this a companion piece to On Grief For A Killed Fox
and A Long Prayer For A Found Killed Raccoon
I am so sorry to see you on the ground.
Unbidden and compelled, those words spoken aloud, as I picked it blackly up
From the green grass beside the road, unmarked as if asleep.
The head was tucked into a shoulder. The last motion it made before death?
He/she—can’t tell—was not killed by a car, for certain, perfect in form, even no rigour,
Smooth feathers still pristine as if still soaring in the cloudy afternoon sky.
But: Nevermore.
(Naturally I have Poe on my mind tonight as I write.)
The task was, take snarling chainsaw into forest for spruce deadfall and dead trees,
For firewood, nothing that still lived.
Task interrupted, the crow carried gently back to my house to shelter, then continue.
Later, the vicious thunderstorm rolled in to forestall the work, lightning blazing.
But sheltered, the crow, in my woodshed to wait for my return.
And then do what?
How do you mourn for a crow?
Caw-caw! Caw-caw! Caw-caw! Caw-caw!
I should announce it to the flock, I found one of your own, in case you were looking.
But wait: I don’t speak Crow. They don’t speak English.
Now one doesn’t speak at all, nevermore, lying on the clean sheet on my kitchen table.
I see the reproach in it’s eyes.
Could I still be flying, caw-caw, but for everything that you and your kind have done,
To my kind?
A question that neither the crow or I can answer.
Reproach.
How do you mourn for a crow?
Write a poem?
What good does that do?
On the table now: My two cats, kitty-curious, sniffing, inspecting the beautiful corpse.
Do they know it’s a bird, their natural prey? Possibly.
But oh no, this one is not prey, rather a sharp, sharp predator.
Those claws and lethal beak and intelligence: Far outmatching any hungry feline.
One cat goes still and pauses in her sniffing, stares intently.
I suspect she gets it.
Then both move on, nuthin’ to see here, time to take a furry snooze on the couch.
Well, it’s not like I expected them to sit Shiva for an avian.
(Although I seem to be doing it.)
I do watch them, you know, wheeling joyful in the sky, darting and diving, alone or in groups.
Total masters and mistresses of impeccably perfect aviation.
Sometimes in surprise, caw-caw, caw-caw, they leap up from the trees,
Disturbed when I go for a walk in the field beside my house, or in my woods.
(My woods? What nonsense.)
But there is no fear in their flight, I can tell, merely prudent feathery wariness,
Knowing full well how easily they can outrace and out-fly almost any threat on the ground.
Until or if, that is, they fall to the ground, strength of powerful wings spent, for whatever reason.
I know I have an impossible guest tonight. Perhaps due to avian flu?
Since there is no way, at all, that a crow would ever cross through my door.
Much less grace my table. Unfortunately for the one who does.
But here he/she is, and a young one too, not large, not quite full grown.
Is there a mate out there who is grieving, caw-caw, plaintive, but hopeless?
Or a family, caw-caw in their loss, noticing the absence of a son or daughter?
I anthropomorphize, of course.
And can’t help myself. Of course.
Tomorrow, some kind of rite must be invented.
Caw-caw, caw-caw, I will sing loudly.
Not a burial with a cairn, not a fitting thing for someone who loved the sky.
As he/she must have.
(Have done the burial/cairn routine with many pets in the past. This is not a pet.)
No, this must be an ‘open-air’ ritual, accompanied by a prayer to the Great Spirit,
Who is definitely the one to pray to on this occasion.
It feels right.
Nor any need for a photograph. That would... somehow not be right.
Should I pluck a memento feather? Only one, only one.
In the afterlife, the soul of a crow should be able to fly unimpeded.
How do you mourn for a crow?
With tears.
---
country. Much also to be said, though, about some of
the other things one will find in the country.
Which I did, the other day. Then wrote about it.
...Then grieved. Let's see if you do the same.
.
...................................................................................................................................
...................................................................................................................................
>>>>> Words of Sorrow on Seeing A Killed Crow <<<<<
By Fred Brown, June 14/2022 
fwbrown61
Copyright 2022 All rights reserved, all commercial
infringements prosecuted, website display permission
available upon request. Non-personal distro is infringement.
NB: Consider this a companion piece to On Grief For A Killed Fox
and A Long Prayer For A Found Killed Raccoon
I am so sorry to see you on the ground.
Unbidden and compelled, those words spoken aloud, as I picked it blackly up
From the green grass beside the road, unmarked as if asleep.
The head was tucked into a shoulder. The last motion it made before death?
He/she—can’t tell—was not killed by a car, for certain, perfect in form, even no rigour,
Smooth feathers still pristine as if still soaring in the cloudy afternoon sky.
But: Nevermore.
(Naturally I have Poe on my mind tonight as I write.)
The task was, take snarling chainsaw into forest for spruce deadfall and dead trees,
For firewood, nothing that still lived.
Task interrupted, the crow carried gently back to my house to shelter, then continue.
Later, the vicious thunderstorm rolled in to forestall the work, lightning blazing.
But sheltered, the crow, in my woodshed to wait for my return.
And then do what?
How do you mourn for a crow?
Caw-caw! Caw-caw! Caw-caw! Caw-caw!
I should announce it to the flock, I found one of your own, in case you were looking.
But wait: I don’t speak Crow. They don’t speak English.
Now one doesn’t speak at all, nevermore, lying on the clean sheet on my kitchen table.
I see the reproach in it’s eyes.
Could I still be flying, caw-caw, but for everything that you and your kind have done,
To my kind?
A question that neither the crow or I can answer.
Reproach.
How do you mourn for a crow?
Write a poem?
What good does that do?
On the table now: My two cats, kitty-curious, sniffing, inspecting the beautiful corpse.
Do they know it’s a bird, their natural prey? Possibly.
But oh no, this one is not prey, rather a sharp, sharp predator.
Those claws and lethal beak and intelligence: Far outmatching any hungry feline.
One cat goes still and pauses in her sniffing, stares intently.
I suspect she gets it.
Then both move on, nuthin’ to see here, time to take a furry snooze on the couch.
Well, it’s not like I expected them to sit Shiva for an avian.
(Although I seem to be doing it.)
I do watch them, you know, wheeling joyful in the sky, darting and diving, alone or in groups.
Total masters and mistresses of impeccably perfect aviation.
Sometimes in surprise, caw-caw, caw-caw, they leap up from the trees,
Disturbed when I go for a walk in the field beside my house, or in my woods.
(My woods? What nonsense.)
But there is no fear in their flight, I can tell, merely prudent feathery wariness,
Knowing full well how easily they can outrace and out-fly almost any threat on the ground.
Until or if, that is, they fall to the ground, strength of powerful wings spent, for whatever reason.
I know I have an impossible guest tonight. Perhaps due to avian flu?
Since there is no way, at all, that a crow would ever cross through my door.
Much less grace my table. Unfortunately for the one who does.
But here he/she is, and a young one too, not large, not quite full grown.
Is there a mate out there who is grieving, caw-caw, plaintive, but hopeless?
Or a family, caw-caw in their loss, noticing the absence of a son or daughter?
I anthropomorphize, of course.
And can’t help myself. Of course.
Tomorrow, some kind of rite must be invented.
Caw-caw, caw-caw, I will sing loudly.
Not a burial with a cairn, not a fitting thing for someone who loved the sky.
As he/she must have.
(Have done the burial/cairn routine with many pets in the past. This is not a pet.)
No, this must be an ‘open-air’ ritual, accompanied by a prayer to the Great Spirit,
Who is definitely the one to pray to on this occasion.
It feels right.
Nor any need for a photograph. That would... somehow not be right.
Should I pluck a memento feather? Only one, only one.
In the afterlife, the soul of a crow should be able to fly unimpeded.
How do you mourn for a crow?
With tears.
---
Category Poetry / All
Species Corvid
Size 120 x 101px
File Size 26.3 kB
TY tha TY. Took sweat, drawing on some different skills than alla the sonnet work. Hmmm. Could do up another one to describe the ritual that got done.
Hey Keats? Whaddya think of this puppy? Good, huh? Long-ago study of the dude seems to be resurfacing. Long-form ode style here; know how to shape 'n craft it.
And didn't Wordsworth spend a lot of time camping out in the English countryside? And look at what he did, no? Deep-rural New Brunswick Canada ain't 'daffodil-drenched Albion' (sic), but it's not bad, not bad.
Less the mosquitos 'n blackflys 'n horseflys the size of B-52s, that is. :- /
Could be... there's more where this came from, Moriarty. (And deserves to be).
fwbrown61
Hey Keats? Whaddya think of this puppy? Good, huh? Long-ago study of the dude seems to be resurfacing. Long-form ode style here; know how to shape 'n craft it.
And didn't Wordsworth spend a lot of time camping out in the English countryside? And look at what he did, no? Deep-rural New Brunswick Canada ain't 'daffodil-drenched Albion' (sic), but it's not bad, not bad.
Less the mosquitos 'n blackflys 'n horseflys the size of B-52s, that is. :- /
Could be... there's more where this came from, Moriarty. (And deserves to be).
fwbrown61 
In a word, ayuh. Still, so a bird has died? And I wrote a poem about it? 'S not a fair trade. :- (
But also still: Lesson hammered home hard [again] about writing poetry vs. prose. You HAVE to write the poem, every word just *wrenched* outta you. Can't stop until there are just no more words.
Whoo-hoo, does this piece ever prove that. TY fer comment.
fwbrown61
But also still: Lesson hammered home hard [again] about writing poetry vs. prose. You HAVE to write the poem, every word just *wrenched* outta you. Can't stop until there are just no more words.
Whoo-hoo, does this piece ever prove that. TY fer comment.
fwbrown61 
Glad it struck chord, caw-caw. Just one of those poems that needed to be written.
Notwithstanding, of course, the precise reason *why* it had to be written. Wasn't easy, this one.
fwbrown61
Notwithstanding, of course, the precise reason *why* it had to be written. Wasn't easy, this one.
fwbrown61 
TY, and one I think I can be proud of. This 'assembled' itself so cleanly; words just fell into place like click-click-click.
That said, suspect I'll have a damn hard time getting it out as spoken word. Or doing it as public performance. Very strong on the emotional 'oomph' here, y'know? 'S what a poem can do, and is for.
*Good!!* I gotta write more like this. :- )
fwbrown61
That said, suspect I'll have a damn hard time getting it out as spoken word. Or doing it as public performance. Very strong on the emotional 'oomph' here, y'know? 'S what a poem can do, and is for.
*Good!!* I gotta write more like this. :- )
fwbrown61 
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