Crows

From a single grain they have multiplied.

When you look inthe eyes of one

you have seen them all.

At the edges of highways

they pick at limp things.

They are anything byt refined.

Or they fly out over the corn

like pellets of black fire,

like overlords.

Crow is crow, you say?

Drive down any road,

take a train or an airplane

across the world, leave

your old life behind,

die and be born again-

wherever you arrive

they’ll be there first,

glossy and rowdy

and indistinguishable.

The deep muscle of the world.

Mary Oliver