By Emma Woodhouse
A cry resounds, cracked and harsh
Alights the jackdaw upon the wall
And all about the sparrows chitter
I lift my head and eye him thither.
His eye swivels toward the earth,
observes something of mirth,
perhaps; lets forth a cry of pure
distraction; cocks his feathered head.
Oil slick, his raven-feathers sheen,
his nape a cape of mist and smoke,
each eye a sea-glass, startling bead,
he turns his gaze upon me.
We freeze, and there is only us.
I count to thirteen.
And then, we break.
One final glance upon that soil,
He feigns, then wings unfold,
With hoarse refrain, his flock rejoins,
cloaked now amongst the many.
Upon that Jackdaw’s chosen spot,
I kneel and part the grass,
my grandmother’s lost wedding ring,
ten years lost, returned at last.