The one that flew overhead straight into wind and snow, iron arrow against steel grey sky. The one in the uncontrolled intersection at Cottonwood and 2nd who wouldn’t leave the scattered trash until my car was nearly beside it, then scolded me. The queen of vocal fry who calls the others to the elm tree across the street each afternoon. They’re part of the hungry murder in my house now, oil spill wings, hoarse gossips. I’ve spread potato chips across the kitchen floor, set out pie pans of water. Every orange from the fruit bowl has been cut in half to reveal a juicy sunburst. I break the silver tabs off all the soda cans, make each crow a necklace, crumple a tin foil crown for each inky head. Evening shadows begin to thicken and gather, heavy clouds swirl out small needles of snow. The crows begin to move towards the door, call and response of plans for the night, predictions for tomorrow. After they leave I find a nest of midnight feathers in the corner of the couch. No changeling egg; just a rooky refuge to call my own.

A crow sits on the peak of the neighbor’s roof and laughs at me when I leave the house. Little swallows dart from tree to tree, first ones leaving as last ones arrive. Squirrels pull apple peels from the compost and run, red and green ribbons rippling behind. Rabbits race the dog to the rabbit-sized hole in the fence, arcing wide around the big evergreen, where the dog hates to run, pine needles too sharp and slippery. By the vegetable garden where we only grew potatoes this year, bees fly in and out of a hole in the ground by a post, just a few yards past the pimple of anthill. In the wood pile, spiders, maybe ticks, beetles, and next door the compost bin where dynasties of worms rise and fall in neglected peace. Butterflies flit through, wasps hover in hot sunlight. Where now the bright sheets of summer hang, winter will soon pull up its heavy white blanket.