Literature
Audubon on the Purple Grakle
The corn rows are ripe
with ochre and ashes.
Countless crows shake the field
with their calls while laying waste
to the crop in a sharp-billed early harvest.
Months before they saved farmers the labor
of plucking grubs from the new growth,
but country men are quick to forget favors,
so Elijah, the planter's youngest son,
stands beside me, the both of us armed
for our own harvest.
We have different aims:
Elijah wants to plump pot pies with gristle,
and I wish to pin wings
forever on the page.
I know the art isn't the animal,
and their shapes will come out crooked
and nefarious, their feathers robbed
of the coppery hue of su