The crow Gowri found
yesterday dying at
the end of the island,
and 24 rescued snapping
turtle eggs, and how
 
she hatched out 23.
She has a skill with
suffering I say, like tracing
faults in fins of rock,
cleavages where seams

break open. By this
I don't mean Gowri
is sad, but she absorbs
suffering as rocks
do rain, each drop
 
an acid, eroding
over deep time.
Like how Liz shows
Catherine lichen dying
from the center outward

And I remember
Catherine's painting
of the red wing
blackbird coming
apart at the seams.
 
The crow is somewhere,
maybe retreated
To crevice or overhang,
say it, to heal or die.
We hear other crows
 
and church bells
across the river.
For now, the shale
looks stable
in the morning light.