Perched on top of the farmhouse
red slate roof, crow preens,
looks around, watches the swinging gate
Crows loudly
He might well crow, being king of all surveyed,
lane and yard, barn and swinging gate,
roof and walls – the very farmhouse.
Crrrrow again.
I shot the crow where he sat. I was a good shot,
used to killing vermin. I watched him fall.
Feathers flew. He did not. I shut the gate
on my shame.