We are a nation
That fights for peace
A country
That was born of ruin—
We are
An experiment
Passed down through the generations
Of sinners and saints
Struggling up, up, up.

We were a nation
That fought the outside
While we fought inside
Every person fighting another person
While fighting their sibling
While fighting themselves.
We were created from a civil war
And we will destroy ourselves as such.

We are a nation
That is still fighting—with no enemies
Left to turn to, we turn
On ourselves. Our parents, our
Adults and trusted figures
Are those we mistrust, because
bang! bang! bang! were they
Ever afraid to go to school
Or work
Because of the threat of gun violence?

We were a nation
That was segregated; we became
Less segregated, but the sick culture
Was grained in our blood. Only, the only blood

I can see you, sitting at the kitchen island
Scrolling through your phone (I didn't even know
That you knew how to scroll) and then tutting to yourself
Like there's a problem. "What's going on?" I ask
(Warily, because the look on your face doesn't 
Look good at all). You shrug. "Your grades," you respond.
I pale. A rush of cold goes through my veins, like
Iridium from an IV—I've learned that grades
Mean college, and college means future, and
Future has to be good to please the family.
And the way you're looking at my grades isn't
Promising at all—your eyebrows are knit
And pointed down, giving me unwelcome reminders
To your own mother, my grandmother, and that's not good.
"So," I manage, ignoring the anxious pit
Digging itself into the walls of my stomach, "what's
The problem here?" You tilt your head—you
Aren't proud. "You have a B," you comment,

Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw.
The crow has moved places now—
It is in the tree opposite the light post,
And it is still mocking the racers
Which skim the fresh cotton-candy powder
Below its perch in the oak.

It's a rather aloof crow.

It fluffs its feathers, turns its beady eyes toward me
As I sit upon the chairlift, watching its plumage
Glisten in the early morning sun, and it says,
"Caw! I am the one
Who sits in the oak tree,
Who determines whether
You get a branch or a twig dropped upon you
As you wheel down the trail!"

Now, it's not wrong that it does have control over this.

However, the crow is rather small for its size
Despite having a large beak,
And it couldn't drop a twig upon a skier
If it jumped as high as it possibly could.
But, between you and me—
Don't tell the crow that,

Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw.
I hear the crow
Sitting on a lightpost
On a mountain trail—
It's mocking the racers
Who skid down ice-coated slivers of ground.

It's a very rude crow.

It likes making fun of those below it,
Calling, "caw! I am the one
Who sits on my light post,
Who determines whether the light goes on or not—
I am the one
Who determines whether you see
In the night which is as black as my feathers!"

Of course, it isn't the one who determines such things,
But perhaps it's best to let it think that it is,
Lest we make it feel bad about its lonely existence
As it mocks the racers below the light post.

(Read the sequel, The Crow on the Tree)