Crows are assembling massively out front,

blown into the yard by winter’s foaming clouds.


It must mean something, this careening arrival

on a Thursday gust. But my eyes find no words.


This goes way back to classical times,

this getting stopped mid-sentence


by the noisy strut of crows. I search phrases

from school notes, Kafka, oracles of war.


I can’t recall the references.

I didn’t think we’d need them.


The birds are still picking through the

thin cold grass, and I’m guessing


they’ll be here only a couple minutes more

before they flit and soar and live out


their raven ripeness elsewhere.

They’re glancing in that direction now,


beyond the TV tower, black vectors

poised to pivot west.


I hope they get on safely, away

from these hot wires and cars


and objects – us – all these

dangerous myths and symbols.

© copyright 2019 Ray Waddle