The crows are arguing
about the price of nests.
They strut around the streets
as if they owned the place.
The mourning dove
resigned himself
and flew away,
the house finch and the wren
have disappeared.
And why?
Are all the little singing birds
intimidated
by the caws and croaks,
are they in hiding,
tentative on tippy-toes?
Or is it we
who’ve built a place
that they no longer love,
the dark-eyed junco
and the hermit thrush,
the goldfinch
and the meadowlark,
the crow our last
and only chance at wings?
American Crows
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MORE POETRY
Critica is an inclusive and transdisciplinary publishing platform that focuses on offering a reflective and aesthetic space to consider social and cultural issues through a psychoanalytic and creative lens. It is also a forum for ideas at the intersection of psychoanalysis, creativity, philosophy, and the social sciences.
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