One for sorrow, two for mirth





All this long winter

		crows watch

			from the tops of trees.



Black bodies

	skulk in branches,

			stalk the roadsides,



their hard black beaks

	     picking at the white

			     gums of winter.



They feed 

	on tough brown roots

			      in the open fields,



and circle above

	        my house.  Each

				morning I hear 



their raucous caw caw.

		  What do crows

			           know?  Why



do they stipple

	        my white winters

			   with black wings?