Crows are the comedians of the bird world,
the bulldogs of the dog kingdom.
Crows are the organizers. Knowing
where to be, they create hangouts and territories
among the local fast food joints and
I happen upon a pack of four
in the McDonalds parking lot.
A stand off for a French fry or some other crumbs.
I sit on an outside bench and watch.
There are three or four in the tall pine trees
set in the street island doing their crow thing,
cawing, giving signals, flying to and fro,
from the pine trees to the parking lot and
And sometimes when I walk along,
often I’ll hear one start to speak. I look
up to find where he’s perched—usually
at the edge of an office rooftop, or a high
tree branch. Sometimes he’ll swoop down,
land—if there’s food—nonchalantly walk
up to it, not paying me any mind, unless
I make a sudden move. He walks like a mob leader,
no nonsense, struts his stuff.
Sometimes when I walk along and I
hear the familiar caw, and I look to find
him—with his crew,
scheming a plan,
I let out a hearty cackle,
let it rip through me
because these comedians,
these bulldogs of the world
make me laugh like no other,
and oh! it feels good! to feel
my body rumble and laugh with Crow.
busily away at
in the road
Nothing will stop
him or stand
in his way
The car whirs by
but Crow stands
from his prize
in the road.