A Reprimand of Crows
        for Wanda

You wake to new snow,
branches bowing

under the weight, yard
and cobbled street quiet

under a creamy skin,
not yet ravaged by track

or tire. Who can blame you
for staying in, refusing

to mar such innocence
with boot or shovel?

For years, you have welcomed
only the knife-edge of light

through shuttered windows,
the muted hum of talk

radio from the extra room,
the mostly silent phone.

Tires grind in the snow.
A tire blares. You falter,

breath held, and peer out.
A Chevy, gaudy red.

A woman steps out, tapping
her phone with gloveless

fingers. She looks at the ache
and grit of your house,

the broken mailbox. Snow
eddies around her face,

sticks to her hair. Fear holds
you to the floor like spilled

molasses. You will yourself
soundless as snow,

still as the cemented hearth.
You will her to leave,

her car to start. You wonder
who will drive the children

to school, feed the dog, wake
the husband from his quiet

death, sweep the frozen flies
from the sill. A truck

screeches its arrival. The driver
flings the old tire aside,

wrenches on a new one. Finally
they leave, the moat of snow

to your door untouched,
its gift of erasure intact,

until the crows return, filching
twigs and unpicked beans,

flipping snow and scolding,
scolding, scolding the grief

you never forget to feed .

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Copyright © 2019 Berwyn Moore All rights reserved
from Sweet Herbaceous Miracle
BkMk Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission