The city’s crows peck and skewer carrion
selectively choosing between the perennial litter
left sodden and desultory in the winter rains.
I watch their darker shapes swoop about
on mite plagued wings
Curious and feisty feet hopping
through bony limbed trees.
I’d like to think we share
a similar response to the litter,
to this common visual insult,
despite our differences
of foot or beak or choice of cuisine.
They caw at me as I toe debris to the street,
summer’s occasional litter bagging I tell myself
improbable now in the drenched and cold.
Above me their black wings
posture and flex in raucous recognition.
I know they’re looking at me.
They’re intelligent birds
They own this side of the street
They recognize faces…
Startled I wonder what they see in mine?
Is there a password for this?
pencil sketch: j.h.white