The raven surprises, plops suddenly,
wings spread, big feet solid on the asphalt.
The crows, smaller, and many, hop
and hop away from the fresh
carrion, presented, it seems, by fate
or traffic.
They do not leave.
The raven croaks his authority.
The crows caw and caw, aware,
always, of their meal’s state,
and their place.
The raven grabs his glob of entrails
and takes off with the blood-slick bounty
dripping from his brilliant bill.
Grandma’s in the kitchen; she looks out
the window toward the alley:
“Just a bunch of stupid birds.”
She returns to her rhubarb pie,
gently lifts out the first piece and
places it on a plate.
She has a guest.
