Crows

God damn, my favorite sweater, all tangled in talons
Unraveled in a rut-filled field in spring time.
Pecked blind, stumbling, mouthfuls of mud
Among the sun-chapped skulls of rodents
Who slept too long in their stinking burrows.
Limp through black puddles, fall palm-first
On a 4-leafed weed with prickers
To handsome laughter.
Wings beat dust from the earth in ovation.
I squirm like a worm towards the white spine of highway
Where my bones can bleach nicely in peace.