This morning I found an entangled
hip-joint hanging in the chicken wire,
small bones like offerings on the feeder
where I leave peanuts and boiled eggs.
A whole foot, still warmed by fur,
left in the birdbath by the pair of ravens
I’d hoped to tame. Corvids have been known
to bring trinkets to those who feed them,
recognize the faces of enemies and friends.
But what does he see in mine
that he leaves me only rabbit bones
scattered among succulents and stones?
Bones dropped from high in the sky,
broken over boulders to expose the marrow.
Last spring there was a third raven.
They bounced in unison, up and down
on the fence, cawing an incantation,
an annunciation of their multiplying.
I ponder the hunt, think how much
transpires in the night while I sleep.
All the small deaths and triumphs, the raining
of bones with all our marrow laid bare.