The Crow's Comments on the 4th of July

Far-off they are—

          two streets away, at least, maybe over in the cemetery.



Over the traffic noise—

          cold-cawing, bracing, an alpine sound on this soon-to-be-90 degree day.



Or maybe it’s not that sort of cold—

          maybe it’s the fallout cold of an empty battlefield,

a forsaken feast with no witnesses.

Maybe there’s a message there, in a peripheral sort of way—

maybe that sound, meant to travel through clear, blue air,

will still travel through dust, and  smoke, and shame.

Maybe the message, meant for other crows, will still mean something to us—

maybe if we don’t light the barbecue,

or make potato salad, or fill the cooler with beer;

          maybe if we don’t raise the flag

or watch the fireworks,

we might hear it.

Maybe those crows have found something  dead to eat—

something  we gave them for Free.