I cupped my cup, watched crows rush through the blurry
crack of morning, evicted by a whiteout wind.
Dots, my thoughts, blown apart by the start
of the workday. Where do they go while I clack the keys?
At lunch I saw one clutch a ruffled, spotted
lettuce leaf edged with brown, it hung loosely from his
craw. Maybe he finished the rest, saved
the best for last, full, unwilling to let it go – in case.
Another crow perched on an eave gutter,
scraped, bobbed, ignored the pigeon cloud above
whirling, returning, a shoreless wave,
they waited for him to relinquish their stolen roost.
We raced home together at the end of the day,
me on the road below rushing to hold just one
– just one – but they win again rendering
the sky black, their bodies thousands of snuffed candles.