I Swear It’s the Same Crow

by Carl Little

That’s been flying over my car
for the past several months,
every time I’m on a road with trees
that black bird winging along,
same size, regulation crow
moving smoothly in the air.
I watch him through windshield,
then remember I’m on a road

edged by trees in Maine, and if
the state bird were chosen by
ubiquity, the crow, hands down,
replaces chickadee

and we give a nod to darkness.
With radio reporting armed drones
over Afghan villages I wonder,
will crows do our dirty work one day?

No need to get paranoid yet —
just stay in your lane as your crow
suddenly swerves off into trees
leaving you to find your way

down this road to somewhere,
endless spruce on either side,
alone with terrifying news.
You miss that bird already.