Before Dark

They used to mass

in the crowns of oaks

on every street for blocks around

but have gone elsewhere,

the evening no longer

gathered by their feathers

but by the leaves, which blot

whatever light is left to the sky.

Whether we saw the crows

as a barely worth mentioning

image of death for the way

they took over branches

with perfect authority,

whether, where did I hear it, their

numbers were thinned by disease,

nothing avails. They are

missing, the crackle of wings

against the weight of their flight,

beaks that broke open

broadcasting any scrap of news.

Like our children, they carry off

whole years, like the wind-borne thought

of cries never welcome enough

day or night in our ears.