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.


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