Linda Benninghoff

The Crow

I remember the crow

you brought home,

a small round of feathers,

curled in your hand,

fed oatmeal and water

through an eye dropper,

then rolling over to sleep.

Each day you caressed

his finger-length feathers.

His eyes turned toward you,

centers bright, edges filmy. Airborne,

he landed on our shoulders,

back, head. We waited

until he would be wild again.

The spirals bore him further

toward the running edge of pines.

Flying away free,

he looked back once

at my empty hands.

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