A Lot to Crow about

A Lot to Crow about

Outside my window, on the dry crackling branch,
he looks at me, that black crow, head cocked

ready to take flight, to mock,
at my lack of wings,
and alleged superiority.

Write your poems, pal, make a living

Burn in hell, while I flit,
from anywhere to anywhere, shifting blackness.
Excellent rat entrails; some for you? No?
Ah! Savage, am I? Hard beak, a piercing intelligence!
Ugly black feet, you say? Tough luck!

Be beautiful and attractive, Sir, and suffer.
My ungainly nest of mere twigs, my unwholesome diet,
my uncuddly chicks - why, I'm quite happy!
I survive, survive well, watching the antics
of anxious fools like you, hunched over keyboards

searching for meaning in foolish symbols
scrolling on that screen.



He looks up at the clear blue,
his canvas to choose, preens his dark bitter wings,

caws twice, once in contempt and the other
in inquiry. An answering raucous echo,
from a mate sneering elsewhere at us,
a fluttering of wings,
green leaves in distress,
and - gone!