FLYING WITH THE CROWS Enter March. Wind scants cold in the sleeping hedges. Crows call. They have bad hearts, cry remorse and make special pleas. See them skate twice manheight over the hill: wings stroke, hold, stroke. I go flying on their backs down the open side of the pasture, slack-mouthed and trembling, clutching hard black feathers, my bad heart pouring out in whoops and caws.