Crows

At August dusk,
a clacking black pepper of crows
fills the break in the trees,
a ragged raucous formation
straggling for roosts in crotching branches.
Each beak makes a little hammer
of casual irritation
against the quiet of our house.
They crashland in the madrona
with a whir of claw --
feather bombs clattering the green blades.

Sundown prints scarlet
the peeled-back trunk
engorging from husks of bark.
Black birds toe bloody perches.
A second landing thumps down the flat roofdeck,
talons ticking tin gutters.
They caw and posture as shadows,
mean domestic secrets
smudging a new moon.

The last birds cross, then fade
loud into the dark,
rude guests that come again.