On Birds

I donít know how these poets can 
filet a dove and skin it; flip it 
inside-out into 
a metaphor for freedom or fortune or 
the fleeting nature of grief; 

Iíd rather skewer a sparrow 
and put it on a spit. 

For years, Iíve watched the crows go 
from lamppost to roof
from suburb to cemetery 
from plot to plot;

Relegated to roadkill and the grubs in the lawn Ė 

A poet could do something about these crows; 
Iíll let them talk amongst themselves.

© Madison McSweeney