He ain’t very bird brain, what? I aimed
the barrel of my shovel at him: he could figure.
A shovel don’t fire no bullets. Up there
cackling ain’t the right word but tore the sky in half.
Racket like gulps of liquor lubricating a throaty laugh.
Aw! Aw! Aw! (Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.)
Then I got a sixty-watter over the noodle. I’d been
digging six feet down all day, so I dug a little grave, what?
I caught the crow’s eye. The crow caught mine.
Slowly, I led the crow’s vision to the little grave.
He could count: six inches deep, what?
Looking into his black mask I could understand
a thousand years of—the necessity of—mob action.