dendrochronology of a murder

three crows come to my door every day. i give them peanuts.
they give me everything else—company, questions, conversation,
though it tends to stay one way. i play them buena vista social club,
they play with fire, taunting the towhees behind the rose bush,
stealing sunlight on their backs. the young one is a universe
about to be born, so black i see everything in it, even myself.
perhaps why he’s so easy to talk to. the other two give midnight,
oil slick on asphalt, shimmering blue and iridescent like the darkest
blue thing, a crow, at the beginning of breeding season, at the height
of her body’s wisdom, which knows: approach dancing. bow, spread
your feathers wide, sing. even hideously. let them know, if you are,
you are willing. be a moonless night on a light-scattered planet.
the deeper the blue, the more hasn’t killed you.

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