The Crow

The way a crow

tilts its head

and fixes his gaze

upon a shiny object –

a coin, a button,

a bit of broken glass –

and snatches it

away to his nest,

hoarding it, this bauble,

drawn to its gleam,

is how we all are,

perhaps,

looking for richness.

In winter

we know he’s visited us

by the tell-tale impressions

he leaves behind in the snow

as he circles below the feeder

where the blue-jays have spilled

seed for him to gather; he stuffs

his cheeks full before running

back to the safety of his nest,

like me, sated and warm

and awaiting spring’s return.

The Substitute

These kids aren’t mine,

not like the hundreds preceding them

in the years before I retired,

gave up my classroom, but not my love;

their noise, their lives still fill my ears.

Now, I’m just a name, another substitute filling in

for a teacher away from his class,

sick or conferring someplace else.

While they might recognize me from around town

or another time covering some other teacher gone,

and while I might know their faces

if not their names, they still aren’t mine.

We’ve built no working relationships, no bonds of trust;

I’m only an outsider intruding on the routines

of their day, this life they share with each other,

but not with me. So I take attendance, pass out

worksheets and handouts, busy work,

assignments due, a quiz or, worse, a test,

and then just maintain some semblance of order

while they work, or not work, talking softly,

distracted by each other, by my being there.

I could teach them, if they’d ask me something,

show them a world beyond here, beyond school

if they’d listen, if they’d talk to me,

respond in some way, but they don’t;

I’m merely a substitute, an inadequate replacement

for the day, a stranger keeping watch.

The Dog and I

We still walk together, the dog and I,

our afternoon stroll. She’s all over the place,

a puppy still in dog years, dragging me behind,

leashed as I am, zig-zagging this country road.

Sometimes, more adventurous, we strike off

down a trail through the woods,

well-worn by many before us, man and dog,

generations of the adventurous out walking.

We’ll loop back, eventually, through old trees

bent and wind-blown, like me, creaking, cracked

and weather-worn, still standing nonetheless, still here,

yet swayed perhaps by the elements blowing,

or a small dog, curious, pulling me along.

We are searching our way through life’s fortune,

following a smell, a squirrel, or a whim,

aimless and without direction, lost

in our own contemplation, life’s pursuit, wondering.

We’ll find our way home in the end, though,

until tomorrow and another walk,

dragging me behind, zig-zagging the road,

or more adventurous, a well-worn trail,

leaving behind our footprints trod along the way.