They puncture the clear, September sky
like fat black commas in the story of a season
They feast on plump ears of yellow corn, cradled
on dry, brown stalks in a farmer’s field.
The social club of ebony birds
converge on a scrap of paper
littering the alley, appearing to discuss it
rather than covet the new find.
From the Colorado Spruce, they watch
The green-eyed house cat lying
Along the green porch rail,
teasing them into shrill laughter.
Crow, I want to follow you to your nest
where male and female take turns
season after season, incubating a half dozen eggs.
And if I split your tongue
Would you really learn to mimic my words?
Oh! With you, I want to fly
into a clear September sky.
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