“Crow at the Edge of the Yard”
A crow lowers itself
into a scatter of restless ants,
lets them climb the dark lift
of its wings.
Each tiny body
moves with its own intent,
a restless swarm working
through the bird’s old grit.
Nothing grand occurs—
just a creature allowing
the world to work on it,
letting small lives
soften what it carries.
Nearby, a currawong watches,
head angled,
as if weighing the practice,
as if wondering
what it might feel like
to let the ground
do its quiet labour.
Not every bird
takes up the same ritual.
Some stand apart,
listening to the low stir
of their own feathers,
waiting for a moment
when the world
might touch them differently.
.
