Two Black Crows
Two black crows prance and preen and hop
around my neighbor’s new teak pool deck
like Mick Jagger. They genuflect
and strut, New York City pigeons wrapped
in black sateen. What brings them here to squabble
by the hot tub when they could instead be dozing –
lulled by the summer heat and cicadas’ fevered buzzing,
juxtaposed
against a lucid blue sky, high up on a telephone cable?
The exquisite teak pool deck
is littered with the legs and claws of crabs
and the hard upper shells the seagull stabs
and the bits and parts the great blue herons peck
when dropped from a height to the dock or the deck.
It is a tasty bite, an amuse-bouche,
the empty carapace, a husk, a cartouche
amidst the scramble of clams the herring gulls shuck.
And the crows? It’s now nearing dusk
and the lights on the causeway bridge fluoresce
as they hunt for a leftover morsel or garnish amidst the
mess
and the carnage, before getting back to their mollusk.
M. Brooke Wiese
If you have any thoughts about this
poem, M. Brooke
Wiese would like to hear them
