Super-Sized Series

 Complexity of Crows


 
Mr. Crow with Corn photo by Al Knutson

Two poems by Sharon Waller Knutson

Mr. Crow 

Short, squat and solid,
a businessman in black,
he struts across our property
like he just bought it,

to the waterfalls
to dunk the bagel
or bangles he stole
from the table, floor
or dumpster 
at the sidewalk café.

Then he inspects
the seeds – sunflower,
pumpkin, watermelon,
cantaloupe we discard
and buries them
in the fertile soil.

Some sprout into green
vines and plants
that survive until the cows
or wildlife eat them
long after Mr. Crow
flies away to never return.

From the Vultures are Circling


The Raven at the Rest Stop

perched on the phone pole
imagines robin and eggs
for lunch when he sees
the bird sitting on bright
blue eggs in a nest
in the Maple Tree. Just
then an SUV pulls up
and out piles a yellow
lab, a bunch of kids
and a mother and father.
When they put the cooler
on the picnic table
and start slicing
the watermelon,
he changes plans
and sets his sights 
on the shiny
black seeds spilling
out of the red flesh
and green skin. He 
ain’t just a carnivore.
He’s also a fruitarian.


Crows by Terri Kirby Erickson

Late in the evenings while customers are wheeling
out strips of plywood and house plants and vinyl
planking to their respective cars and trucks, there

rises above the Home Depot a murder of cawing
crows. Black as caves where the blind fish swim 

in underground rivers, they gather by the hundreds
on bare tree limbs. There, they roost until morning 
like siblings sleeping in the same bed for warmth 

and comfort. Young crows, however, are looking
for a mate, so they are busy eyeing each other with 

intense speculation—much like people bellied up 
to a bar at closing time. Far below their perch, you 
can’t help but watch the colossal clouds of bird life 

pass above your head, pausing for a second or two 
before starting your engines. Whatever perils the

crows may face, they are safer in numbers just like 
human beings crossing massive parking lots in the 
dark. But they never have to travel through town in 

a vehicle full of home improvement projects they 
will never finish, to a house as empty as a beach in

winter. Instead, the crows keep collecting until their 
feathered bodies almost appear as one, and the night 
falls like a pair of glossy black wings softly closing.

Two poems by Barbara Crooker

CALLING DOWN THE CROWS
 
Come, darkness spinning out of air,
Come, princes of the night.
Spiral from the sky,
charred scraps of paper,
anti-angels.
I am not calling starlings
which are nothing like stars,
but crows, which are nothing like moons,
no light reflects, but light's sucked in;
these are black holes of birds,
the cloth of the night is made from them.
I bring them down with crusts of bread,
scraps of fat, husks, rinds, crumbs.
As soon as I toss the first orts
of the feeding season, I know they're out there.
I hear their raucous caws in the distance,
feel them circle before I see them,
chips of soot, black snowflakes.
Lords of the lawn, they swagger & strut.
And I, who have called them,
feel my heart turn to coal.

published in Yankee 


THE CROW AS BLACK HOLE, 
 
an accumulation of darkness,
sheen of coal, polished obsidian, ebony keys.
Liquid night, they stalk the cornfield,
know how well the snow shows off
their tuxedos' satin lapels.
They swagger.
Ink.  Ace of Spades.  Sin.
Victorian jet beads, mourning clothes.
Impudent as daylight,
their caws rasp the air, saw it in strips,
weave a basket out of wind.
Spin straw into gold.
Dazzle a cold coin in the sky.
Blow it out.

First published in NeoVictorian/Cochlea

Crow Patrol by Peggy Trojan

The crow that owns the path
to my gardens
keeps track of my usage
from the big pine.
Thinks I owe him a toll.
 
He flies above me
squawking his protest,
settling down in another pine
where he watches me
pick raspberries.
I remind him that he ate
my first bean planting
before they sprouted.
He admits it's so, but argues
that he let the next
one thrive,
points out I ended up with more
beans than I could use.
Claims he keeps the other birds
away from my berries,
preferring peanuts himself.
 
I agree with him,
appreciate his concern.
It is worth a bag of peanuts
to have a watchman on duty
all summer long.

First published in Your Daily Poem


First World Problem by Donna Hilbert

Back porch crow 
tries fitting two 
Costco peanuts-in-the-shell
into a one-peanut beak, 
caws for help

from Thermody



mr. crow does tai chi by j.lewis

crow stands quiet, tall 
on freshly mowed grass
whispers to himself 
"taolu - solo hand and weapons"
slowly deliberately raises one wing
holds, stiffens, spreads pinion feathers
brings the wing down in an arc
the smooth arc of a battle axe
until the feather tips touch grass

he holds this position to the count of ten
folds the wing down carefully
then repeats the movements 
with the opposite wing
always controlled, deliberate

after three repetitions, he shifts
"neigong, qigong - breathe, meditate"
head turning slowly side to side
observing carefully, pondering
each blade of grass, each breath
and the whisper of wind in the trees

meditation over, he caws
hops to the fence. lifts both wings
keeping them carefully bent
then extends them forward
"tuishou - push hands"
slowly but with power
push, push, push until 
they brush the fence
relax and repeat, 
relax and repeat

a faint noise behind him
alerts him to a curious cat
he spins to face the enemy
fully alert and prepared
"sanshou - striking technique"
he hits hard with wings and beak
his caws harsh, strident

cat flees in total fear
bird flies to fence top
smiling slyly to himself
one must never interrupt 
mr. crow's tai chi

first appeared on Verse-Virtual

Crow on Lincoln Street by Marianne Szlyk

Here no one watches the short, stout crow swagger
past pickups, past brittle trees, past brick houses

where crow-like men work on their yards.  Not even
dogs bark from behind screen doors as he passes.

He keeps to the street, does not break into flight.
No cars brave speed bumps, slide past walls of work trucks,

scare or dare the crow who would sense them anyway.
But he avoids the park where box turtles bask,

pitbulls parade on leashes, boys play soccer,
red-winged blackbirds perch one moment on ghost-reeds

before breaking into song, then into flight.

First appeared in Verse-Virtual


 
Crows at seaside in India Photo by Abha Das Sarma

An Abandoned Plot by Abha Das Sarma

holds a roof,
rising bamboos guard
empty spaces-
drifting crumbs
reach the fence
where sits the crow
in morning breeze.

I gaze long at night sky
until it begins to talk-
until the letters dance
in nooks of heaven.
I anchor in clear waters-
until the stars fall
in slow drizzle.

My breath in dying mist.

first appeared in the Ekphrastic Review

Learning from the Crows by Judith Waller Carroll

This morning my mind 
is as flexible as a gymnast:
bending toward the possibility of your idea,
reaching for the likelihood of mine,
willing to admit you might be right,
not entirely convinced I’m wrong. 
How I envy the crows 
as they orate on the neighbor’s fence,
the strong opinions of one 
countered by the other’s Nah,
balancing on the thin wire 
of their own certainties 
with the ease of trapeze artists,
then flying off together 
through the day’s dense fog 
as if it were just an easy stroll.

From What you Saw and Still Remember
    


Not a Murder by Tamara Madison

They fall from the trees 
with so much grace, 
swoop up toward the clouds 

gather on boughs and sheathe 
the dark arrows of their wings.
When they swoop out again, 

their shadows drip blackness
onto the grass. Wherever they are 
becomes a party, or at times 

a raucous wake. And though 
they wear the black of mourners, 
they are life’s perennial lovers

and a group of them is not 
a murder but something
much more sociable – 
a conviviality of crows.

Ambivalent About Crows by Gary Grossman

1. My heart a pendulum—rocking crow love to crow hate—then back again—these large, dark Einsteins—bullying everyone from Carolina Chickadees to Red-Bellied Woodpeckers—despots of my yard—they guard and hoard the suet block, like a hockey goalie fronting the net. 

2. Darwin said, “I get it, aggression is good—fight for survival and all that—pass on those traits” although it took Watson and Crick to figure out the trick— with a side of Mendel’s peas—back to the main path—crows. 

3. The corners of my mouth turn upwards in admiration—then arc downwards—biological referee raising the head crow’s left wing in victory—eleven species now defeated in our yard. 

4. Another meaningful friendship lost?—crows have great memories and I’ve shooed them repeatedly—my picture tacked onto the murder’s “unwanted” bulletin board—beware of the mean dude on Highland Avenue—yes, social transmission of knowledge—it’s a fact—they remember faces, and their parents—solve a puzzle, no problem—even tool use—much to respect. 

5. I can do a great caw, and if unseen, lure them close for a corvid—“who’s the new bird”—but at first sight—I’m marked as avian fraud not friend. 

6. Can amends be made—more peanuts on the porch?

From What I Meant to Say…
A Doorway Guarded by Two Crows by Rachael Ikins

Two crows on a beach towel unzip a backpack. The house rises on its hind legs, flaps its wings, high on the sugar-rush from beak-dipped Pepsi, an Oreo grasped with clawed black feet,
two crows on a beach towel. 

Later that night we investigated each other at surf’s lip,  moon dribbled, scribbled poetry and crows 
black-dancing-silver 
waves

Your delving fingers like blue-black beaks dripping carbonation, the scent of lilac in our hair, just us making love on the lounge chair on the beach where this afternoon,  two crows had sipped Pepsi, pecked Oreo crumbs, and tore into a book of poetry by some obscure Argentine.

One flew off, screaming around the pen in its beak. Crows are not pessimists, every road-killed squirrel with maggots every lump of red-ribboned plastic, an opportunity—here,  maybe a fox tore the plastic skin, wads of wrapper strewn, melon rinds, mysterious bloody bandages to investigate.

Shiny, so treasured, a child’s neon-pink barrette , something for a bird or a poet 
to covet 

Off night’s porch, wind carries feathers to the beach, water licks it lips, rubs  sand out of its eyes again and again, pulling everything on land into its skirts, birds, poets, for the ocean spewed us all forth.

Delicate layers of silt, laid down with tongues’ precision, strewn shells that fill and spill and fossilize—see,  here, in this rock, impression of a gypsy-bird, wings, outstretched, bony legs, a tail fanned, suspended amber secrets in the ears of beach-ponies, their celebration, drum drumming

I watch my mother listen to the sea, her head cocked like an owl’s, I see the knowing in her yellow eyes, the knowing of what-comes-next. Death, just an interruption, a doorway guarded by two crows on the beach, burping Pepsi, and staggering, drunk on sugar and chocolate and I wonder
is chocolate poisonous 
to birds, too

from A Handbook for Alchemists