Pass, Crow

We've got noisy new visitors in the backyard, and there's caws for concern.

As an undergraduate English major, I studied the English poet Ted Hughes, who was married to Sylvia Plath at the time of her suicide. So we could hardly expect backslapping limericks à la Edward Lear. Instead we read “Crow,” a poem series that contained this memorable passage:

Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.

Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.

But who is stronger than Death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.

While dis…