Reconciliation

If you piss off a crow—even accidentally—
maybe throw a pinecone in its direction
while scaring a squirrel from the bird feeder, 

I’m told it will remember your face
and its grievance;
it will assemble friends

and instruct them in your wrongs.
Together as a mob, they will
berate and scold you, dive

bomb and follow you. They will 
remember it next week,
next month, next year,

maybe even for the next ten years.
But if you are nice to a crow,
leave it a peanut, say,

or just greet it in a friendly tone, it will 
hold your gaze to judge
your intent, then might come

closer, might even talk back,
converse about the day. 
If you make such kindness a practice, 

gifts could appear:
a screw, a piece of broken glass, 
a paper clip or round stone, 

or even something that you lost, 
you had no idea where, and thought 
you’d never get back again.


Ghazal for Flight

The baby in the row ahead knows we’re in the air;
she is inconsolable, can only thrash and cry in the air.

The chatty guy behind talks freak accidents and crashes
seated next to a Boeing engineer, as we all, improbably, fly in the air.

I don’t mind a crying baby; she knows what she feels.
Around her, we read, sip, watch, everyone pretending we’re not high in the air.

The baby wears herself out against her mother.
Her intermittent restful silence feels now like a sigh in the air.

I make a happy face through the seats to the baby,
who grins back, dry-eyed in the air.

All around us strangers sit in bubbles with shades lowered,
but we two are friends now in our sky, in our air.

Finally, she sleeps, abandoning the struggle, finding peace
with Suzanne and the others, forgetting to ask why, in the air.