Crow Soul

        I recently took an online MasterClass with Billy Collins, who inspired me to revisit the poetry I have written over the years. The East Lake County Library was having a poetry contest, so in my attempts to get over a need for perfection, I decided to submit a few of my past works. I was delighted to receive a phone call that informed me that the following poem received third place.
Though I may continue to edit it and the others in that impossible quest for “perfection”, this is the version that I submitted that day:

            Crow Soul

    A flutter on the path,
    two black wings spread in painful,
    futile attempts to turn the world
    upright to fly to safety.

    He lay contorted, intermittently
    saving his energy, then using it
    to try to move on with his life,
    or perhaps to find a better place to die.

    So exposed in his writhing, unprotected.
    I fluctuated in my own feeble attempts
    to help him live, or to help him die,
    failing in both.

    I simply watched him struggle and weaken,
    and prayed
    that he would find a peaceful death
    and peace in death.

    He lay still.

    I stayed with him a short while
    until his wings and legs were stiff
    and I was sure he was on his way. . .

    That night as I slept the crow returned
    to offer me his soul in thanks for my few
    brief moments of kindness. He assured me
    he no longer needed it after this day.

    I accepted the gift and tried on the soul,
    long, light, and lovely.
    I felt the caution of his wisdom
    and the confidence of his purpose.

    I saw for the first time all the little things,
    and understood my place in nature.
    I knew this gift to be one of honor,
    humility and respect.

        This poem was based on actual events … watching a struggling black bird, wondering what to do, and the dream that came to me that night. However, my “discussion” with the crow was so vivid and strange that I woke up before I decided to accept or reject his unusual gift. When I decided to capture the story in poetry form, I tried to imagine what it would be like to accept the soul of another living creature on this amazing planet.

        I do not know the difference between all the large black birds that fly through Eastern US, so I am not sure whether “my” black bird was a crow, starling, blackbird, or other. But to me, he was a crow, and on many days, about three of them come to my backyard, visit for a bit, and squawk a greeting that I am convinced is just for me.