I.

 

On the beach the crows

hop and strut.

 

They seem oblivious

to the boats and Sea-Doos.

 

Occasionally, they will roost

in the willows

looking out, I presume,

for the dead.

 

Now one of them

lands on the railing outside my window.

I can’t see what he’s looking at

but it’s clearly not me.

 

II.

 

looking for not sure what

not even looking, really, just

open, waiting, not

even that--just a smell

draws me down to poke

in this seahay and gravel

toss aside a crushed plastic bottle

this saltscrubbed tampon

applicator and red ribbon

tangled up in a child’s

deflated birthday balloon this

smell

until the sound

of sand under a footstep

invests with fear a shape

in the far corner of my panoramic eye

and sends me up into a blue

I would find exhilarating

if I weren’t always looking not even

looking, really.

 

that smell.

 

III.

 

they go for the eyes

before it’s dead.