She Doesn't Speak

As she gazes at
the crows grooming themselves
in the frail limbs

of the few trees
left in her once-
award winning yard.

She can't help but think
they prepare themselves
for her
alone.

They rustle
and caw
an esoteric language.

The lawn hasn't been
mown in months.

She pulls her robe up close,
pulling her hands
under the healing warmth.

Destiny marked her long ago,
and set the scenes, and set the props
so carefully into place.

(the widow with
a purring skeletal
cat in her lap

rocks and waits)