Today I watched a crow with too much
time on its hands steal feathers
from a hawk’s golden haunches,
just for the hell of it, stalking
suburban streets whose trees
soak up aspirations from vision
boards of college students, roots
nourished by dregs of unfinished
dreams. The thick bark reminds me
of Dr. Phil’s hands, groping our
subconscious like a smooth toll booth
operator, the back of his bald head
shiny as a lit-up map where you can
find every recorded act
of human decency
and I don’t mean to brag
but I once spent the day
watching over a tuft of tilled earth
where a turtle had laid her eggs,
right in the middle of a busy walkway.
Maybe she was distracted or had a lot
on her plate, but goddamnit,
she got the job done, squeezing
out each leathery wet egg.
After she scuttled off
into the marsh behind a Wendy’s
I stood watch over the fresh mound
and sang to the embryos, brand new
in their woozy shells. I procured
some chalk and drew a pink heart
around the site, writing
in big letter: Caution,
Fragile Life Here —
which is what I say to strangers
when my aura gets dim
and I need an extra layer
of protection to steady me
through the day’s unraveling reels
of atrocities. I’ll point
to my chest and remember
how joy survives,
humming through the cracks
of accidental grace,
making a home out of nothing.