The crow admires his shadow,
eats the dead squirrel in the street,
well part of it– you can't blame
something for part– you can't blame
something for eating something
already dead. How is it different
from your own dinner?
The crow is intelligent–
seems intelligent anyway–
cocks his head at you as you talk.
You are certain he has stolen
from you but how can you prove it?
A small spoon can be misplaced,
a bit of foil, well can you really steal foil?
You see a youtube video.
That crow is on a snowy metal roof.
He has a jar lid that he carries in his beak.
He climbs to the peak of the roof
and slides down on the lid like a sled.
See? He stole a lid. You try to tell
your friend, but she just shakes her head.
You don't know how to explain.
It's not your crow in the video, your crow
is that kind of crow though–
the kind that is clever and funny. The kind
you give your heart but he steals
your soul too because it is shiney. You try
to explain about the squirrel on his breath
but your friend shrugs,
motions for you to smell your own.
About Heather Beatty
Heather Beatty is a poet and public artist. Her poetry has been published in journals including The Paterson Literary Review, The San Diego Poetry Annual, Gertrude, and Knot Literary Magazine among others. Her public art pieces include The Bubblegum Poetry Machine and a Pop Up Museum series. She lives in St Paul, MN.