That dead crow’s been there three weeks 

bright in sun when we skirt the tree. 
Same day of week, same time of day. 
Wings out wide as if it gave its ghost up 
not quite just-in-time to set it free. It lies there 
freak-still; why has some man not come by 
and picked it up? Most folk put such things 
in trash cans. Or why have birds of prey 
failed to swoop down, clean a spot of life 
they know is gone? That is their work. 
You'd think a rat or two might sniff the place, 
their scat dots the whole round world. 
And what of worms, or bugs that take 
life's least lost piece back to the soil? 
It’s odd to see once more each day we pass   
the shine of her black cloak burn cold   
where dark will weigh at night. And odd 
my dog does not pull to the spot death claims, 
a still pool out of wind where life, late life, 
is not.