What’s Left

After the limbs and the sliced wheels
of trunk and the scattering of needles
are finally chipped or hauled from my lawn,
we find three dead crows.
The branches of the 100-year-old spruce
that fell on our house still have ice and snow
trapped in their dense foliage
even in the now 50-degree day.
The crows are limp and ragged, gashed
probably by wind-thrashing twigs.
Maybe the birds were huddled together
trying to keep warm in the branches
in this disastrous cold.
Maybe they were stutter-stepping about my lawn
searching for winter food, and were crushed,
as surprised as we were when the tree toppled.
I’ve heard crows have funerals, gather
in a nearby tree, all shrieking together
when one dies, but what about this?
What about three hidden
under piles of green?
We could have left them there, the blue-black
corpses, to be found and mourned,
but it was too much to bear.
Knowing a bit about grief,
I worry about the families of the dead.
I worry they’re out there, mothers and sisters,
fathers and brothers
still looking.