Interesting are the crows
Their nasal squawks permeate Sunday’s silence
from the mouths of dormant chimneys
There is a purpose to their short, fevered flight patterns
a reason for their dominating calls
But I cannot entirely gather why
as surely it would mean hours upon days to do so
And here in my backyard moments
only a glimpse of their day
The Tufted Titmouse and Chickadee’s chime
barely audible against theirs
Two mourning doves ruffle feathers along the fence’s ridge
and brown squirrels await fallen seed
at the floor of the feeder I have put there
Our human ears distaste that loud caw from above
muffling pleasant birdsong
and perching proudly on our rooftops
But we are in their home.
Busted Flip Flops 