How the Plastic Bag was not a Crow
It was not a crow.
Though waving. Though glistening.
Though waving and glistening on the road.
It was not a crow. Though the overing and overing
of black was like a crow it was not a crow.
Though the striking of the light was slightly bluish,
the moving of the bag in the breeze quite birdish
it was not a crow.
In the sun, in the glinting
Of the bag its wrinkles looked like feathers
for a moment
the bag’s crumples looked like a crow, broken by wheels.
I drove past slowly
hoping it was not a crow.
I was glad to see that although
the plastic bag did seem to have something inside it,
I was fairly sure it was not a crow.
And I left it there, being not a crow
– continuing to be not a crow –
waving its tentacles in the wind
looking a little bit like those bluish feathers
that crows so carefully preen…
And I risk my life in the traffic
to write how this plastic bag wavering in the wind
stuck down by the weight of something it contains
is not a crow.
And I drive away a little faster now
thinking when I next come back, the crow
might be hopping across the road seeking
to see what’s in the plastic bag, that tendrils
it’s feathery contents all over the bitumen
glistening a little in the sun;
– a bit like the feathers of the Crow.
Lucy is a resident of Gorman + Ainslie Arts Centre in Canberra. ‘Strokes of Light’ (2020) is her third collection. Her prose poetry earned her the 2022 CAPO Cook Creative Writing Award as well as being shortlisted for the Word Prose Poetry Award, 2022.