There was a crow,


    by the old church,


    who screamed and hollered,


    that its stomach hurt.


    “I guide your dead,


    I protect your clerks,


    And yet none of you,


    Can feed me bread?”


    said the crow,


    guardian of the dead.


    Then came a boy,


    tears down his face,


    Dressed in black,


    no adult by his place.


    “I hear your cries,


    I know your pains.


    I will come to church.


    Full will be your stomach.”


    The boy made good on his promise,


    limped through the morning snow.


    Offered, in his cracked hands,


    bread, he gave the crow.


    The dawn morphed to weeks,


    yet still the boy came.


    In his sweaty fists,


    crumbs aplenty,


    doughy splendor.


    The crow’s hunger eased.


    The crow grew guilt


    in its heart,


    because it had nothing


    to offer this boy,


    who gave his all.


    “Sit down, young man,”


    cooed the crow.


    “I have lived well and long.


    I shall tell you what I know.”


    So weeks turned into months,


    yet still the boy remained.


    Legs crossed, heavy heart,


    a crow by his place.


    The crow spoke of ills abated,


    of nightmares bested,


    of love sated,


    of breath bated,


    of homes tainted,


    of friends deserted,


    of beasts burdened,


    of lands burned,


    of people scorned.


    All of this he told,


    and of this,


    the boy’s mind beheld.


    A library his heart held.


    So months turned into years,


    the boy a mule with books.


    Quills, pencils, papers


    made the boy’s legs quake.


    When he toppled down a hill,


    with mirth, the crow shook.


    “Lad, you’ll break your neck


    carrying them like that.


    Come, I know a place,


    where you can get a sack.”


    A tree, the crow


    led the boy to.


    Roots long, gnarled,


    and, with age,


    bark snarled.


    Branches curled,


    leaves withered.


    It sang to the boy,


    “Don’t dither,


    come hither,


    lest thou shiver


    like an archer’s quiver,


    and the bird of death


    carries thee on its back.”


    In it, years of piled treasure.


    Feathers, flowers, and fetters.


    As well, of course,


    An old rucksack.


    Weathered, dusted,


    and patched.


    The boy whooped,


    the crow sang,


    the tree danced,


    and night turned to day.


    Still, the boy did not leave,


    and neither did the crow.


    They watched as flowers


    turned to snow.


    As a fragile fawn


    became a doe.


    Soon, the boy grew,


    and the crow saw him anew.


    Gone was the boy,


    an adult in his place.


    Icicles in the air


    roughened his voice,


    and the boy,


    no, man,


    said he had no choice.


    “I must migrate,


    as you once did.


    Leave my place of birth,


    and further my knowledge.


    I hope to be wise,


    I hope to be rich.


    For that, I must leave,


    past the church,


    past the gates,


    past the trees,


    past the graves,


    past life,


    past death,


    past this place.”


    The young man packed,


    A burly, torn sack.


    He hoped for wealth,


    and the crow its snacks.


    “You might not recognize me


    when I’ve returned.


    My face might be different,


    worn down by the world.”


    The crow,


    still in shock,


    rattled its head.


    Where was the boy


    who gave him bread?


    Instead, this human,


    stood in his stead.


    Yet, just the same,


    he wanted for wealth,


    and wanted for bread.


    “Little hatchling,


    grain of my eye,


    make me not recognize you?


    I dare you to try.


    You have the softest hair,


    like a mouse.


    The smartest mouth,


    as many would grouse.


    And yet none compares


    to your wise heart.


    So go on, bird,


    spread your wings.


    Find all the greatest shiny things.


    I’ll still be here,


    at the church.


    I’ve already lived.


    I know my worth.”


    “You’ll forget me not?”


    “As long as there are forget-me-nots.”


    Summers smoldered,


    winters dreaded.


    Autumns fallen,


    springs bled.


    Willows fell,


    houses toppled,


    bloodlines ended,


    and lands hollowed.


    Still, the man did not return.


    The crow was pecking at the earth,


    looking for morsels of worth.


    No worm could fill his hollow.


    It longed for bread to swallow.


    It turned its feathered head


    towards the tree,


    then towards the rows of dead.


    Beside the graves,


    flowers of the brightest blue.


    The crow cooed


    at the nostalgic hue.


    Where was its boy,


    who grew to a man?


    The crow grew old,


    this keeper of the dead.


    Yet it longed for the life


    of its hatchling’s eyes.


    The darkest part worried that


    the man was not alive.


    Then, one spring,


    the tree whistled,


    leaves bristled,


    branches whipped


    the innocent air.


    “The man returns


    to this hallowed earth!


    The boy, now grown,


    has learned his worth!


    Look, over there,


    a beautiful shadow.


    Come hither,


    don’t dither,


    lest thou break


    like an arrow


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    in an archer’s quiver.”


    The crow, feathers grey,


    cawed at the tree to quit it.


    “I am too old,


    too tired,


    to be woken so soon.


    The corpses beneath


    can sleep past noon.


    If the dead,


    who provide no bread,


    have no obligation


    to join the conversation,


    then neither do I.


    Calm yourself, oak.


    The man is gone,


    like the dawn,


    and no happiness


    will be spawned


    by your prattle,


    so don’t babble


    like cattle


    when brought to slaughter.


    The man is gone…


    The boy is gone…


    No happiness


    shall ever spawn.”


    “Quit thy dramatics,


    feathery buffoon!


    Happiness has come


    before afternoon.


    See there,


    the child,


    bounding up


    the hill,


    like a hare.


    Oh, what a sight


    to bare.”


    The crow cawed,


    ruffled,


    and pecked at bark.


    The man, returned.


    What a lark!


    Yet hope turned its beak,


    and old eyes did seek


    a shadow so familiar.


    Instead, disappointment.


    Yes, this human did have


    an old rucksack


    on their back.


    Yes, the human


    was the same size


    as the man when


    he left the church,


    but nothing else


    was of note,


    of worth.


    Until, that is,


    the bird heard a cry.


    A simple sound.


    Could it be a lie?


    “Crow!


    Where are your cries?


    I have returned to church,


    and I have returned with bread


    Soon your stomach will be fed!”


    Happiness, this is not.


    It is joy!


    What joy!


    Like a child’s


    first toy.


    Its chick has come,


    its darling boy!


    “I hear you,


    I hear you!


    Come, end my pain.


    I could soak the earth


    with my water of agony.


    Here I thought


    I had lived a tragedy.


    Yet my boy has returned!


    Forget the bread,


    forget it all!


    I only wish for my child


    to be back in my arms.”


    The shadow,


    boldened by the sun,


    broke out into a run.


    The crow jumped down


    from its place,


    and jumped with joy,


    hopped in place.


    “My hatchling,


    my chick,”


    it muttered erratically.


    “My darling,


    my sunling.


    The perfect loaf of bread.”


    The shadow grew nearer,


    and details built upon them.


    The crow’s elation dimmed,


    and anger vined instead.


    This was not the boy,


    now man,


    who left the church,


    past life,


    past death,


    to seek his worth.


    She had the figure


    of a young pine.


    Hair thick


    like a thicket


    during spring.


    She bore a smile,


    which befit the lass.


    Crinkles at the corners


    spoke of painful pasts.


    Still,


    she was not he,


    even with her trickery.


    The crow,


    ladened with regret,


    sniffed,


    turned,


    and pecked at the plants.


    “I do not know you,”


    the crow said.


    “Now leave me be,


    I look for bread.


    Crust or crumbs,


    it hardly matters.


    Begone,


    be well,


    be out of my sight,


    or you shall know


    a grave guard’s might.”


    “But you do know me,”


    the young woman said.


    “I once went by Alex,


    but that name is now dead.


    It fits a grave more


    than it does fit me.


    Do you recall a young boy


    who fed you bread?


    No adult by their side,


    no love in their place,


    forgotten, forsaken,


    left in disgrace?”


    “This boy I know,


    this boy I knew.


    How can you be that boy,


    who I saw grew?


    He had the darkest eyes,


    and the smartest mouth.


    the softest hair,


    and the wisest heart.”


    She bent to her knees,


    unafraid of the bees.


    Her stare as strong


    as the dancing trees.


    “My eyes are still dark,


    my hair is still soft.


    And I assure you,


    my mouth is still smart.


    But what once was in,


    is now on display.


    Surely there is wisdom


    in refusing to play?


    In stages shunned?


    In masks abandoned?”


    “Abandoned, abandoned,”


    The crow cawed,


    shaking its shelled maw.


    “That was the boy’s theme.


    His identity, his essence.


    His motif.


    And you’re telling me,


    This woman before me,


    Is that same boy?


    That same motif?”


    It squawked, flapped,


    and cocked its head.


    “Well, who do I call you,


    this woman before me?


    Not boy, not man,


    Not the child once before me.”


    Tears filled her eyes.


    She bowed her head.


    “You called me hatchling,


    Before our paths parted.


    Birds of a feather,


    equally forgotten.”


    The crow swallowed a cry


    as its heart regrew.


    Its hatchling,


    its darling,


    now anew.


    It jumped on her leg,


    and, once she looked,


    the bird said,


    “Forgotten? Nonsense,”


    squawked the crow.


    “We remembered each other,


    did we not?


    I told you tales,


    and you fed me bread.


    We survived winters


    by fires.


    Endured summers,


    by lakes.


    How could we be forgotten,


    when, by each other, we placed?


    And a crow keeps a promise,


    just as we never forget a face.


    Startled, I was,


    by your fine features,


    and hair like lace.


    But now I see it,


    my darling hatchling.


    Your hair is like a silk sheet,


    and your mouth crinkles with smiles.


    Your heart is bruised,


    perhaps even shattered.


    Yet bruises do not prevent blood,


    just as pain does not stop wisdom.


    In fact,


    it makes the facts


    all the more fearsome.”


    The woman cried,


    though little blue in her tears.


    Her knees shook


    with deep-rooted fears.


    Cheeks darkened,


    lips parted,


    and cries clattered.


    “And here I thought


    you’d forsake me,


    or worse,


    forget me.”


    “Look there, silly lass,


    though grown you may be.


    There are forget-me-nots


    by our place,


    by the tree.


    Forsaken? Nonsense.


    Safe here,


    you will always be.”