Crows

Crows.

There is a bird in that tree.
The one whose branches were once young
And full of fruit.

There is a bird in that tree,
With eyes like suboceanic fires.

There is a bird in that tree,
Not making a sound.

But if it did,
Make a sound that is,
It would not be a
Scramblish
Common
Raucous
Rough
Craw.

It would be the tones of the dead king,
Who had the tree cut down.
Or
It would be the cry of the human child,
Who was found in a cradle made of that tree’s limbs.

Such strange fruit this tree bore,
Only crows would eat it.