Remember this, then.
There is a girl at the edge
of town, window jimmied, slipping
lumps of scrambled egg and hard toast
out onto the damp side of the sill.
Morning fog’s bitten off all
but the nearest branches of the family
sycamore, and the family of crows
living there, chittering, churning
the clouds with their wings.
There’s a line of objects laid neatly
along the dry side of the windowsill:
a pebble, a paper clip, can tabs, beachglass,
earrings, buttons, a cat’s broken femur,
the silver half of a heart.
She waits with her nosetip cold
to the pane, quietly breathing herself
into the swirl of an old man’s beard,
until one by one, dewhooded
and coin-eyed, the crows come
clutching gifts, offering trade.