Crows

Crows

                  Fat, black crows live in the tree.

They see me.

             I hear their laughter.

               Preening mawkishly, they spin as one

  To Face me.

                   Black-frocked, they perch on the wind,

        Circling and swooping in ever widening arcs.

                    Lopping off great chunks of pallid sky.

               They show no mercy.

I am an interloper

        Caught between tree and garage.

                        I live in the cracks.

                                             —Katherine M. Searle