The crow

by Katherine Burris

The crow begins its day early

beating the pheasant’s squawk for the harsh welcoming sound of morning.

It surveys its domain.

It knows exactly what field is being harvested

on the fertile marshes preserved by 17th century Acadian dykes in Old Barns.

The garbage stops on the streets of Bible Hill are routine: College, Murdoch, Vimy, Dorset

and the Aberdeen Street School playground offers no secrets to it;

roadkill can’t be planned but human rubbish can.

The seasons’ changing weather has little effect on the crow’s timetable,

but dusk does, signalling flying time

toward a night-time perch high in the towering eastern hemlocks,

for the crow ends its day early.