The Crow
The crow died and we buried
It with extra earth as in the Iliad
Where stones were fitted tightly
Together against the day when
Spring rains would surely come.
As often happens, there had been
A sudden burst of frantic activity,
A final fluttering one might say
And then transformation into the
Work of art entitled dead crow
Forever unforgotten with clarity
Of future recollection in Nabokov's
Elegant phrasing but not knowing
Or even not knowing how to know
Whether it was male or female.
'I won't throw dirt in that dog's face.'
It's funny, not haha funny but funny
Like when something stays in your
Mind over many years or even for
Your whole life while other things
That would seem to be of greater
Importance deliquesce like when
Frosty the Snowman melted away.
'I won't throw dirt in that dog's face'
Is what I heard a man say in 1975 so
Without going into any detail I'll just
Mention how there are days when
'I won't throw dirt in that dog's face'
Is my first thought in the morning and
Might be my last one when I croak.