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My Neighborhood Murder
6 | 27 | 16
by Ed Makowski
A murder
of half a dozen crows
have started congregating
kitty corner from my house
They flap into the trees
and perch and circle and
kaw to one another
then swoop back down to their
lowland territory
of the vacant lot/shared garden
and talk about it some more.
When I walk past, I
stop and speak to them.
Ask how they’re getting by
and invite them to my
raspberries if they like.
Last night a woman
with a passenger seat teenager
drove by, then
reversed after seeing me on the porch
reading a book.
She rolled down the window
and asked across her child’s lap
if this neighborhood is safe.
I’m always aware of my surroundings
and rarely feel threatened, so I am
probably the wrong person to ask.
“I live here,” I told her, thinking
Does she not see my cherry tree,
my apple tree, the peonies
and strawberries and peach tree next door? Who that
is a terrible person, gardens?
But the white people always think
if they ask another white person
that question is somehow
less insulting, less presumptuous.
I can’t speak to the future of
her passenger seat daughter,
but as long as I can see the crows
from my front porch
and they can see me,
enjoying our lives
parallel to one another
I know
no harm will come to me
while I am here.