97poems/crowco

Some kind of crow commotion
in the acacia,
a nest I have just discovered,
but whose?
So that explains all
these close crows,
I say to myself,
remembering the expression
crow’s nest but, as usual,
not what it means.

Some little twittering thing
make a sweeter song,
the first garlic blossom relaxes,
as we all do
in this time of day,
when the sun subsides
and life again seems possible,
shade across the yard
and I am happy to live here,
shovel and rake leaned
against the shed,
the empty pots of what
has been planted
left here and there.
The fennel breaks into bloom,
a neighbor’s horse whinnies
in the distance,
cars on the highway.
The hypnotic music
I have listened to all day
allows me
this moment on the stoop,
studying my yard
for what to eat.

5/15/97
4:30 p.m.