The crow jumps on the edge of the road.
In its beak not a crab or a clamshell,
but a baby bird
naked and pink against the asphalt.
The chick dangles by one miniature wing,
head lolling on its cord neck.
Sparrow mother’s frenzied flapping
useless as the crow’s screech
at the eagle that raids its nest.
No one else witnesses this death.

In the nest, heads tipped back,
beaks wide like a lucky four of diamonds,
food dealt out of the sky.
They have more hope than I,
blind faith one could call it.
Survival instinct, you say.
Yes, and isn’t that also faith
in its own right?
Like swallows that swoop
among sunset mosquitos
taking their evening meal,
this feeding of one
with the sacrifice of another.
Memory plays this silent movie all day:
crow, hatchling, mother bird, human witness.
Nature incessant in its savage beauty,
the whole of it intent on life.