Miriam Sagan

Almost as large as ravens, the crows, those dark birds
Of Santa Fe talk to me,
Scolding me in parking lots
Or chattering at me from bare trees
Dragging off their roadkills of a MacDonald’s bag.
They whirl across my yard
Taunt the cats, and I
Caw back at them.

A friend of mine
Who weaves baskets out of grass
Says: Miriam
Of course crows like you—
They are attracted
To shiny objects.

Out of all the kachinas
Hanging on the wall
The one I picked out
Was Crow Mother, none too young
Slightly hunched—poised to step out of the trance
Her face geometric, masked—
As aren’t all our faces masked
Before we dance.


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