This poem first appeared in Poetry Midwest Issue 17, Fall 2006.
Crows Again
Come down Sunday morning and the crows are back,
hitchcocking in the front yard, stark on the
powdered sugaring of snow.
Feather robed Jesuits, cawing in conclave, they argue
the finer points of bagel versus stale bread, eyeing me
judgmentally through the glass.
The Irish say doors to the netherwold open
where crows gather. I believe them.
Else why all this weird? Not even the squirrel cold cuts,
last night’s leavings from a moonlit tabby songfest,
can explain this invasion.
One for sorrow, two for mirth.
This gathering is more like hysterical laughter,
but whose is the joke?
