These mornings, I can see the crows commute
but backward. From downtown, a storm of wings
heads east across the river. Raucous things,
on sky of lavender, they’re black as boots.
They forage in the suburbs—so we’re told—
and gather, midday, to exchange the news
of morning work. We wonder at their views
on traffic, building work, the rain and cold.
I see them sometimes on our water tower,
enjoying what the crows call happy hour.
With day's work done, they chatter and they shout—
of corvine sports and politics, no doubt—
then rise by thousands, headed into town
at evening, when the sun is going down.
Books Available
Dervish Lions
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside
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