As the wind begins the crows emerge
ready to play tag, chortle, caw . . .
make that special sound only they can make,
take flight over rocky shoals into ocean mist
their numbers increase as day descends
upon the dense pines that line the graveyard
of our tiny coastal town
Great swaths of green leafy boughs
breathe and billow
as corvid come and go,
flap frenetic across open field, open pond
from where i watch. Informing the others
of imminent arrival, change of trees, stir in mass,
rise in hive mind, cannot shut-up
caw caw . . .
performing stand-up for one another
They chime in audible, raucous
with joy and goodwill, like the last happy
creature in the universe
may yet join the chorus
— Larry Crist
This article appears in 20 Years at the Playhouse.
