That small patch of brightness
on the autumn hillside is not
what the whole murder of crows
which flocks to it this morning thinks it is -
discarded, machined treasure, wind-polished,
left to feed the rust and hide the wood rats,
both of which thrive under those trees.
It is a rock; I have been to it many times.
Wizened gray, hollowed in its middle,
tilted just right not only to catch but to hold
last night’s rain and offer it,
like bright coins from gentle hands,
to the savvy crows, who dip their heads,
noisily, and fill their thirsty beaks.