Not Haiku

When I die, I hope crows

eat my eyes, and somehow absorb only

memories that made me laugh

and that they live on

one last time

in the crows’ cackles.

Brown-gray lizard stalks...

Brown-gray lizard stalks
a cricket-- bright-eyed crow
watches every move.

Summer sun glares down...

Summer sun glares down--
a crow hops in the shade 
of an old oak tree.