On a busy street, on one of those
mid-autumn afternoons
your black lab is barking
to oak branches above
and a murder of crows.
They stare at each other, black eyes
blacker bodies and speak
the private languageof swift black things.
Is it the season or the birdsthat make the trees seem
so skeletal? Do the birds come only after things have paired down
to muck in the street?
My dog barks her agreement heavenward. Only when
the unclean undercarriage of daily life sees day
do these things congregate, call out, speak to one another.
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