I hate crows,

I have to say,

They eat my corn,

Then fly away.

Then perch so high,

On overhead limbs,

While I fume and fuss,

And cuss at them.

They set up there,

Above it all,

And laugh at me, 

With their “caw, caw, caw”.

In fits of rage,

My thoughts run toward loaded rifles,

Poisoned fields,

Traps and trifles,

But I remind myself,

Of what I’ve heard,

How they are such,

An intelligent bird.

No doubt, ‘tis true,

As one can see,

I’ve no doubt,

They’re smarter than me.

But I look back,

To those long gone,

How they and these birds,

Once got along.

I’ve heard and read,

How the Cherokee,

Built for themselves,

Bird effigies.

And how these wise,

And wondrous birds,

Avoided fields,

Bearing those interred.

So, with a plastic bag,

Of the blackest sort,

I made a crow,

Which I would disport.

I hung him there,

By his limp fake heels,

As a warning,

In my growing fields.

And I must say,

Much to my surprise,

The crows all gathered,

Before my eyes.

And sang a dirge,

For their long lost kin,

Born from the lining,

Of a garbage bin.

But my boundaries now,

They did respect,

And their o’rehead flights,

They did deflect.

I’m glad to learn,

Of the elder’s ways,

And that I may now,

Here sing their praise.

And I toast the wisdom of birds,

That all may know,

In the end, perhaps,

I do like crows.