Admiring the crow through glass.
The crow has settled
Into the backyard ash.
With doors and windows closed
In winter cold,
We watch him open and close his beak.
From his posture
We know he pontificates
From his pulpit
In the tree.
We see his open beak.
We can almost hear him
Because we know and admire crows.
They are lovely birds,
Even if their tone
Is raucous,
Even if sometimes they speak
Out of turn.
In the silence
Of the breakfast table
The crow speaks
From the ash.
We imagine
What he is saying.
We smile.
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