Long black feathers,
tips splashed with blood
lay scattered, strewn across
my lawn this morning.
I didn’t hear
any raucous caw-caw-caw,
so I realized that
the fight among crows
or perhaps a bloody
struggle of crow and
predator had been silent.
The strewn feather evidence
tells me a fight did happen–
those long black feathers
tipped in red
as if blood was the only
ink the crows could use
to write their story.
Over the years, I’ve never
known crows to suffer
argue, or even visit
silently, yet no sounds
accompanied this struggle.
The stealth nature of
this bloodletting
occurring right
outside my door—
has me wondering
what other
silent struggles
from crows, from others,
have I missed
because they were silent?
Joan Leotta plays with words on page and stage. A multiple Pushcart and Best of Net nominee, her poetry, essays, stories have appeared in the US and abroad. On stage, she performs folktale programs; offers a one-woman show “Louisa May Alcott, Author and Nurse”
Ah yes, there is so much in crows.
Joan Leotta’s poem inquires how many (prople) struggle and die silently with no witness, mute.
Beautiful poem, knock out ending.
I have not seen the struggle remains from crows, but other feathered fatalities have left evidence in my yard. Fine poem.