My Human Disguise.
The old crows fly with a graceless hurry
As if dodging barrages of thrown stone,
Retreat to their darkening rookery,
Arriving limp and sated, one by one.
I’ve seen them, uncountable, roosting
In a dead wood in the flooded wetlands,
The rubbing of their wings a dry cooing.
They hunch like bald men without legs or hands,
Some alone, some in groups of two or three.
They don’t seem to need or want each other,
Though most are uncle, father, or brother.
A ghostliness of camaraderie
Lingers, everything cold and indirect;
Extends the way the bare branches connect.
