Her Familiar

Her Familiar

Is crow. Watch him
peril the backyard,
hustle the birds: who
gets what/when at the feeder.
In crow’s shadow
squirrel stops on a dime,
splays his body
against the tree, becomes

bark. But when
it comes to the dog, crow
fluffs his throat of feathers,
tin-soldiers along the fence rail,
craws for the beagle’s attention. Ups
the volume (P. Diddy

on the boom box) before stashing
a rancid morsel- you still with me dog? –
between logs in the woodpile.
Flies in his branch in the walnut
to watch what happens

next. Crow is interested.

Crow shows another point
of view, a more-than-human angle
from which to learn air
and invisible, electric currents.
From this high, factories
fracture into colour
and it’s clear
everything’s animate,
everything moves.

The light of the world through oil and water.

And his humour – his bald caw caw
obscene as your mother’s moans
from the guest bedroom
the night her boyfriend sleeps over.

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