The crows have feasted on the overnight roadkill

Yet the ones in my tree are dressed for mourning.

Their caw, no doubt, covers everything from

happy to sad, to warning to mating cry,

but it also includes what’s happening in my life.

The plagiarize my mood with tuneless song.

My shiny black neighbors are echoes,

sometimes Greek chorus, a running commentary

on who in my life has recently died,

who have I broken up with, and why does my job

snatch the very heart out of the hours from nine to five.

And, all the while they’re doing this, they still

fulfill the obligations of their own lives: feasting,

mating, protecting their young. I can’t do that.

If pain overtakes me, I stop what I’m doing.

If depression sags breath and body,  I look to the crows.