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.