Crows clutter the
winter sky.
Hordes of swirling,
frenzied black meat
encircle three trees
on the block, two on
my side and one across.
Crows cover the branches
like a black hood.
They are angry about
something.
Or maybe it's some type
of meet and greet ritual.
The cacaphony permeates
the air in layers.
They rush upward, crisscross
or swim in a circle,
flapping and issuing their caw-screech.
Don't know what it all means.
Always considered them
nasty creatures.
Scavengers.
Predators.
Angry coots that chase you
off their lawn.
It's ten degrees below freezing.
They are clearly winter birds.
I recall a Hitchcock movie.
Transfixed, I watch the scene play
out,
grocery bags in hand, fingers
already numb.
Neighbors at the halfway house
three buildings down,
have come out in shirtsleeves.
A sidewalk commuter stops
in his tracks
and cranes his neck skyward.
The air is now earsplitting
and black with birds.
I watch for ten minutes more.
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