Grief Work Crows circle in a murder, caw to mourn their dead, rifling this ordinary corner, gunning for the culprit. I lie back on a new webbed lounger. These are the waning days of summer, season of solace. Black birds smaller and higher than I remember. Neither placated nor gracious, not the type to gather quietly ‘round a survivors’ table, their keening unnerves me, like outrage I can’t muster. Cruelty’s bred and braided, knows no surfeit-- crows darken their line of flight, scribble in black crayon, mark the perimeter of this crime scene. It’s instinct. We know the pitch and tempo of such harrowing. Why? , they cry. Why not? Even so, sorrow’s raw, bearing down, this racket won’t be mistaken. Behind me, a bowl, rugged, unsettled. No one would dare build there. I still learn to scout the limits of my own safe standing. Closer now, fear seeps. Audacious cries that dare not drive away the...