© Deborah George Streit 2016 All rights reserved
Crows don't covet night birds.
They fucking eat them like caviar,
down the hatch with a swig from the bottle
of Grand Marnier hidden beneath Granny's windmill.
She died from the hiccups, farting potato skins.
No one envied her gluttony.
And no one wanted the bottle of Jungle Gardenia left on her bureau.