Crow is perched on the end

of my bed, looking at me with black pricked eyes;

his pickled feathers are glossamer as pitch

but when he squawks

all I do is shrug

in blankety defense. I say, talk

English, you are in America now,

heathen tongues not allowed. Crow

stalks up the coverlet to the

pillow, hums his beak along my cheek:

a weighty, hammy bird, a bird for the ages,

strung and tethered

speaking the darling language of love.