Crow's Impatience

After the hay was made and the threshing done,
One morning late in August when the arm
Did not begrudge the leisure of anyone
A crow spied me from a tree and gave alarm.

His carrion thought I’m not supposed to know,
But I was aware of what he craved that day,
Something of mine had died, a sickly sow,
And he was urging me to haul her away.

I meant to burn the sow and take no risk
Of illness spreading, to sterilize the ground
And leave no feast for solemn crows who frisk
Among my trees when they smell death around.

They seem to know that old age makes us colder,
We ought to tell ourselves as time goes by:
Remember the crow that lurks behind your shoulder,
Be careful of the things that you let die.