To a Crow

Krähe, wunderliches Tier,

Willst mich nicht verlassen?

[“Crow, you queer creature,

Won't you please let me be?”]

—Wilhelm Müller, “The Crow,” set by Schubert in his Winterreise (1828)

Hail to you, swart spirit,

  Bird you've always been

(Don't think I doubt it!)

Since, in the Miocene,

Seventeen million years ago, flapping on the scene,

 From lizardry you leapt,

  Smarter yet, and more,

With all your promise kept,

And that resounding caw.

We martial upright apes are greatly in your debt!

On Windy Ilion's plain:

  Horseman Hector dead,

The Greek and Dardan slain

  Bleeding ghastly red,

You cleared things up real quick—“Mr. Clean,” but years ahead!

On Cannae's battleground  

  Countless Romans dying,

Expiring all around,

   Were not by you left sound—  

Speedy's your middle name, the Carthaginians found!

Austerlitz’s butcher’s bill,

  Paris, Boney claimed,

Would in a night refill

  (Excluding, that is, the maimed).

Your cleanup once complete, no emperor complained.

The Somme and Stalingrad

  Both called upon your aid.

Bipedals had it bad,

  Old Clootie had it made!

Hell’s fires blazing bright, still crows were unafraid.

In this sampler of warfare

By generals of repute

The crows were always there,

Waiting patiently to loot

Sightless eyes—cadavers' wounded faces' fruit.

In Ukraine's Donbas today,

  Ravens diligent,

Dead die the hi-tech way,

  "Negotiations" spent.

For po-faced anthropophagites, those crows are heaven sent!

Saturday, August 16, 2025