Some folks don’t believe in birds. A big old black bird landed right there dropping its
wing down off our roof. Right down the center of the house. Sure enough, that’s where
we found my dog dug out under the kitchen. Ate the gray poison toad—chasing it since
he was a pup. Dragged him out by the scruff. A far piece from the house. Went right
handed at the road down to where the culvert gets shrubby. Covers him up. And that old
black bird turned to watch us. Then took off. Back, like as not, from whence it came.
Some folks don’t believe in birds. Crow buzzard. Buzzard vulture. Vulture raven. Raven.
Call them what you will, you ought believe in birds. If you want to be let alone.
Otherwise, they’ll perch to warn you. If you take no heed, they’ll pluck your roof. Pluck
the thatch till the mountain dumps snow on your bed. Wake up. Thank the bird. Thanks
for letting on there’s a boneyard under my feet.