In the field, the backfield trees are dark, bare and see-thru This time of year, the tall thin leafless trunks sway easily, One trunk leans precariously north bent since the Dec. ice storm, Most mornings I watch the murder of crows, who come to lunch in the field, Flitting between the trunks, getting their sights set before swooping in
And then today, in the mornings dense heavy hanging fog, One crow takes a stance on the north leaning branch, I watch the branch sway slowly as he lands, Rippling, rippling, rippling under his weight, as he preens The underside of his wings, yet by the time I grab my phone and walk to the window, of course, He gone, just that bare branch hanging out
In the dense fog where the ever-present telephone pole Reminds me of a cross in the obscuring mist, And without much fanfare, he’s back again, But wait, now they are just showing off, as each crow Lands on the branch, using it like a high diving board, Using the bounce as a lead in to dive down into the field, after which one of the other crows Takes to the board and follows in this same pattern, and their play is my morning amusement.
