Monday, January 13, 2003

The crow stood on the

The crow stood on the littered strip
the median where garbage breeds
Before him rolled four lanes of traffic
heedless of his glossy wisdom
The ground was shaking with their speed,
their weight, their thoughtless might, their sureness
That is when the crow leapt forward,
doing what has made him famous
Merely yards away were standing
others of his inky ilk
so little space to separate them
Thus he charted his intentions,
hypotenused his shortest path
and flew toward the other birds
directly into roaring engines,
radiators - moving walls -
on which his dark reflection gleamed
I saw it all.  Five cars avoided
turning him into a giblet
as he flapped with - could it be
anxiety or that regret I feel
when I have chosen badly?
One yard above the ground he flew
until he landed safely but
his cohorts didn’t seem to notice

I may still use the flight of crows
to symbolize the quickest route
but now I see that merely choosing
paths because they are direct
can put a bird in mortal danger
Regardless that he landed living
I may select a route that wends
if traffic blocks a shorter path
I’d rather know I’ll land alive
Efficiency is moot for those
who have eternity to wait.