Crocitation 3: Hector

Hector, Knave of Hearts

Cawing earnestly
in the chill, early morning
shadows of backyard pines,
I try to lure Hector the Crow
over for a chat, and for a chance
to snap his picture.

This tactic worked once before,
but today the only answer I receive
is the droning buzz
of still-sleepy carpenter bees.

Five minutes pass...
so does my next door neighbor,
Glenn, en route to his pick-up,
heading for work. He shakes his head
in bemusement at my pitiful imitation.

Thank goodness he didn’t mention
the sweet-corn kernels
that blew off my carport roof
onto his back porch in last week’s wind,
nor the twinkling strips
of aluminum foil
I’ve tied to the fence
that divides our yards.

Ten more minutes pass, then twenty.
Still crowless. Obviously, my cawing
has convinced no one this morning;
silenced now, I pick up my camera
and walk toward the house.

As I step out of pine-tree darkness,
sunlight sweeps over the freckled skin
of my forearm, followed closely
by Hector’s gliding shadow.

The crow floats up over the housetop,
flaps his great rustling-silk wings
and flies off toward his mate.

How long had he been above me,
cocking that iridescent head of his
from side to side,
watching me make a fool of myself?

Only when he caws his
rolling-on-the-floor chortle
do I realize how absurd I am,
a crow wannabe. Only then
do I feel embarrassed.

Damned bird!

Beautiful, wild-down-to-his-soul,
cock-of-the-walk-strutting
crow!

Thief of sparkling things -
and of my rabbitty-racing heart.


(C)1998-2009 Martha McLemore