Crows

A crow murder
weights on bare
birch branches
at the windows,
and watches
with seeing
eyes.

Gossips, they
scold and call
accusing things;
keep in memory
every injury.

Just like us.

Covetous crow people,
we seek out shiny things
with suspicion and desire,
measure each other
in mirrors and
glinting reflections.

Our dun colors
and dull days
dictate desire.

It’s not the things
themselves we want,
but their gleaming.

It is not we
ourselves we want,
but our shining.