An Old Crow’s Lament
A deer carcass on the side of the road. It is a doe. Her
once black eye whitewashed gazes out blankly in the evening
light. It is the first thaw of spring. She has been
laying there for quite some time. Her
matted hide is just showing sign of being
sun-bleached and now two crows gorge
themselves on the carcass that has finally softened in
the new warmth.
There’s a sensing and wonder of times past. There is memory.
But it just cannot be that simple. There is an inkling
in that mind that is similar in mine, but
similar enough to call it nostalgia?
I can see a need to evolve such an emotion to
help us survive the more unbearable difficulties,
when rotten meat would be a godsend
and then eventually
a matter of fact
but then still, still
to have something to remain hopeful for: when
the godsend of rotten meat is only a memory.
Two crows gorge themselves on the rotten carcass of a doe,
dead for how long on the roadside.
Why must I read emotion into everything.
Perhaps other crows have also evolved in this way to survive.
