By Mary Oliver
There is corn in the field,
what should I think of else?
Anyway, my thoughts are all feathery.
I prefer simple beak talk.
Maybe it’s having wings.
It does make a difference.
As for that business about brothers,
of course I’m concerned that we
share the corn, to the extent
that I get my plenty.
As for later, how can “later” exist?
When old crows die I don’t cry,
I peck at their silly, staring eyes
and open my wings and fly to
wherever I want to. I’ve forgotten
both father and mother,
even the pile of sticks
in which I was born. Well, maybe
now and again, and mostly in winter,
I have strange, even painful ruminations.
When you’re hungry and cold
it’s hard to be bold, so I sulk,
and I have dreams sometimes, in which
I remember the corn will come again,
and vaguely then I feel that I am almost feeling
grateful, to something or other.