Crowing About Themselves

Sharp black branches reach

up through leafy flames.

Crows have arrived for winter.

Well, have been here all along

but have come to claim the cold

for themselves.

Caws reeling between

their glistening jagged wings,

caws falling among the fallen leaves.



They strut our lawn

leather-feather jacketed

tall and loud and proud

all year,

but once the musical birds,

the trillers and chippers,

fly away following invisible light trails,

the crows have so much more to crow about.



Today

even for clattering crows

they are harrassment personified

diving into the still-green leafed oak,

over and over,

over each other.



Then I see him

still

broad-breasted

feather mass

unperturbed

head tilting

efficiently

left

to right

to left.

No crows on him.



A hawk

to whom crows

have no importance,

no doubt inedible,

and it drives them

just plain mad.

If crows could howl

they would.