Black Like Jazz

He's black
but black on a crow is like jazz,
full of variations, never quite the tune
you think it is.

He sidles near my feet, peering up
with a beady eye. He pecks at potato chips
spilled yesterday, glued to the sidewalk
by last night's rain. He's black like jazz
with purple highlights.

He calls his friends,
hunching his shoulders, tail flaring.
Huge effort for such a rusty squawk.
Crow, you're not a sax or a trombone
but still you're bold as brass
and black like jazz.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside