Then the crows turned their voices to great rejoicing
New York Times, 1884
Lone Crow Daddy commands the highest pitch
of my roof and the mockingbirds are pissed.
Crow Daddy hops the roofline
unfazed, so urbane,
taking his sweet time. He flaps
to the ground toward the woods, a sough
of wind in the grasses. From the sycamore
boughs he telegraphs his version of the story
across the fowl riot of mockingbirds.
Robins come scrapping and bluejays screech
in to boss the job. Meanwhile, under attack,
Lone Crow Daddy glides over to the high
pitch of my neighbor’s roof. Ignores
his critics. He lifts a wing in preening,
departs for the next roofline. Only now do I realize
his game. I think about the poet who warned
me of my disingenuous tendency to give human
qualities to the animals in my poems. Fuck him,
Crow Daddy would say.
Days later five crows have set up shop with Lone Crow
Daddy, holding auditions for ringmaster
in these bawling neighborhood skies.