As a sort of prayer that Things That Were Lost will find the right agent (rather soon, while we’re at it), for the second edition of our series I’m sharing a poem about that most intelligent of birds, the crow.
My husband finds rocks in our gutters, sometimes,
and I wonder about recent weather patterns.
We hear tapping, insistent hammering,
and our brains make the leap from annoying birds
to brilliant innovators,
the rock a tool, a snail the prize.
The windshield wiper of imagination
replaces an image of pebbles
rattling down from cirrus clouds
to this crow, rooftop engineer,
visionary and inventor,
cracking the shell, designing the catapult,
colonizing the moon.