"Crow at the Edge of the Yard"

A crow lowers itself

into a scatter of restless ants,

lets them climb the dark lift

of its wings.

Each tiny body

moves with its own intent,

a restless swarm working

through the bird’s old grit.

Nothing grand occurs—

just a creature allowing

the world to work on it,

letting small lives

soften what it carries.

Nearby, a currawong watches,

head angled,

as if weighing the practice,

as if wondering

what it might feel like

to let the ground

do its quiet labour.

Not every bird

takes up the same ritual.

Some stand apart,

listening to the low stir

of their own feathers,

waiting for a moment

when the world

might touch them differently.

.