Crow
Years now he's shrieked
from the pine, eyed my patio
doors for the customary
shudder of curtains.
I've left my desk, a sink
full of dishes,
my parents long-distance
to rush the kitchen for old
bread, a pancake or two.
He flaps from the branch
as I slide the glass open, spin
waffles, doughnuts, biscuits
from my hands. He pounces,
pecks, and swallows, or stacks
and sweeps them away, then
crows for more.
From the window I remember
how the limb used to
quiver when he perched. Now
the whole tree is a lover
waving goodbye.
