On the roof a cacophony loud enough
to wake the deadly, and me
Murderous damned crows
tap-dancing thunderous as dragons
They shimmy across the shingles
down to the eavestroughs where
they're sipping rain-water
and mountain-ash berries collected,
fermented to a fine natural exquisite wine
No wonder they're in no hurry to go
I raise the blind to squint them gone
but of course they have their own
flashy feathered abstract ideas about
timely leaving; they are oily black, spangling
ethereal black angels up on my roof
I lay back, my head aching from their sound,
and their beauty
Still, I wish them gone
Imagine folding each one carefully
into a perfect black origami swan
But instead of sending them aloft or aground
I know I'd have them shelved, quieted at last.
S.E.Ingraham©
