Gathering

"All things of the world are bowing   
or being taken away." ~ Linda Gregg


What do I know of being chosen
in order to be branded, sold, 
gutted, instead of merely left 
behind? In the branches of the fig 
tree, its limbs skeletal in winter, 
crows conduct their own cold 
symphonies. They are good
at surveillance. They descend, 
dark cloud knocking on roofs; and I 
imagine every worm of kindness grows 
still in the soil. Neighbors bring out 
an industry of leaf-blowers. The tree
whispers, there's no end to what 
we'll gather into bags today.