Strip malls like this are common hunting grounds
rich with food rotting easy to scavenge–

 
in myths crows arrive with bright Valkyries
to gather the best fighters from battle

 
and usher to Valhalla; they look close
to discern warrior or rancid meat–

 
again perched on top of my car, a crow
waits on me as I exit the market,

 
its murder loud somewhere I cannot see,
their sound fills the air like laughing ghost birds

 
that egg on this cocksure raven glaring–
in his feathers’ sheen the eye’s a wet stone

 
staring–so that I’m sure this third time’s no
random act: on the third day a third crow.