One beautiful morning dad shot 2 crows out of his pecan tree.
One fell from the top branch to his death,
the other ran across the field to hide in the tree line.
Dad and I dressed quick and ran to hunt him down and finish him off.
A dozen crows were wild with caws, “run for you life! fly, fly, fly!”
Dad straddled the barbwire fence.
I ran back to the dead crow under the pecan tree
and waited for the shot,
Boom! Boom! Boom!
A few minutes later I paused in my study of the crow at my feet.
His feathers shiny black with splotches of scarlet.
How beautiful was his blood against his black.
I straightened up to see dad coming across the field,
crow in his right hand, gun in his left.
He hung em on the wooden swingset so the other crows could see.
Then we picked up pecans beneath dad's pecan tree.