Instead
Some summer mornings
instead of the musical kaleidoscope
and early morning leaf-streaking
of the songbirds
feathering my yard’s trees
and hanging feeders
I’ll wake to several crows
yelling obscenities
at each other out on the lawn,
a pack of miscreants
who’ve been out all night drinking:
their arguing
a chainsaw in the dawn.
But right now
a single crow
flaps its big wings once, twice,
slips sideways in flight
through a hail of slanting snow,
this stark beautiful bird
the daring first stroke
of black on a fresh
white canvas.