After everything, winter still fell away into summer.

The nest of crows filled and emptied. You watched
at different angles. 

Outside: cigarette butts and discarded couches,
their stuffing greyed and congealing.

After everything, rain. Baby crows cried to eat.
You watched the mother tear spaghetti from the dumpster.

In spring, the trees greened over the electric wire
and you were still breathing.

Would you rather remain unaware of it all
and never know your heart’s certain economies?