Crows
They take possession of the garden, loiter
beneath the bird feeder, perch on backs
of wrought iron chairs. When the sky darkens,
they assemble in the hemlocks’ topmost branches.
flapping and vexing the air. They are watching
for snow, for the fox to crawl past the fence,
for the dogs to run in circles in the yard.
They make a racket as if there were news
beyond shadows falling. I could bang pots and shout
but crows have seventeen calls for warning.
They would gather more forces, not let up
until I brought them the keys to the house,
my strand of pearls. They arrive in threes—
this one near the steps twitching its wings watches me
switch on lamps and pull the curtains closed.
