A murder of crows circle the old oak umbrella,
Their boisterous caws filling the dusky sky
As they assemble for their nightly happy hour.
I walk, uninvited, under their meeting tree
Dog in tow, towed by dog,
An outsider to the party.
What do they chat about, with such fervor?
Changes in the weather? Their crazy kids?
Slothful colleagues? New nesting plans?
Or perhaps crows speak of higher things.
What it means to be a crow, relationships to other beings.
Humans destroying the world and what they can do about it.
I’ll never know.
Perhaps the dog does.
But he’ll never tell me either.
