WHAT THE CROWS KNOW
The birds, their black wings beating against the dead
current of winter air, mark the spot in their circling.
Moving beneath them we see the redbloodblack smear
stretched out along the pocked pavement and the
artifacts, the remnants of what must have happened.
A fireman without a helmet, works a hose to force the
road clean so that no one will see, so that no one will
learn what the crows know: that we are alone.