Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...


Linda Benninghoff

The Crow

I remember the crow
you brought home,
a small round of feathers,
curled in your hand,
fed oatmeal and water
through an eye dropper,
then rolling over to sleep.
Each day you caressed
his finger-length feathers.
His eyes turned toward you,
centers bright, edges filmy. Airborne,
he landed on our shoulders,
back, head. We waited
until he would be wild again.
The spirals bore him further
toward the running edge of pines.
Flying away free,
he looked back once
at my empty hands.

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