By Barbara Dunham
Pensacola Branch
I see your shadow first, gliding above. You alight in the uppermost
branches of a nearby tree.
Then the conversation begins. A sound only a crow makes — caw-caw-caw,
mirrored from another of your kind. Then a third and a fourth. Loud.
Guttural.
You reposition to the roof — never missing a beat in the raucous
exchange.
I marvel at your beauty — sleek, black, iridescent blue. Piercing dark
eyes ringed in yellow.
I see you study a squirrel burying a nut. He scampers off and you sweep
in to steal his treasure. Clever bird.
You are part of a community flying and roosting in groups. Thus the
booming calls to other members who respond.
My neighbor feeds you and you, in the branches of an adjacent tree, eye
her movements. Snack time.
You strut, you preen,
you vocalize
and you own this hill we share.
Was it Mary Oliver who said it is the job of the poet to notice?
Barbara, you notice!! And then you share your perceptions so beautifully–
Bold, vivid, and full of energy! I can hear the crows, and see the one moving around, eyeing the squirrel and your neighbor. I wonder if he was watching you, too, his observer!
a satisfying last line! good for you!