Crows remain, casting pellets,
performing burials in the lawn,
hiding things in gutters.
Most die in the egg. Others fight
to the death, dropping from ash trees
filling crabapple trees with night.
Sour fruit picked clean, the caucus ends.
Only cores remain.
Perched on the skylight, watching us,
tapping, depositing a feather,
we are not even friends anymore.