Autumn Crows in our Back Garden

crows are born at thirty something no one would call them baby-cakes they know they are not geniuses some of their friends are simply wild but none will suffer from overweight when they are near a feeder greed never enters their thoughts only survival. it is the grackles who have a substance problem, and the mourning doves mate too often they realize that most smaller birds are just passive depressives, jealous beyond action and that we are automatons who know no better they have no qualms flying up to our rail to check on the status of the compost pot is de rigeur. at least we know how to make waste, and where to throw it if they could write, they’d make novels they’d know how to sneak up on a plot claw up dirt simply by walking on it each nail could chew up old cliches create a whole new language with characters their ancestors once robbed and left for dead with their beaks, they would open a vein in conventional scenery which would split the hairs of even the best editors they don’t care about book sales and awards they know to write is to survive and what other bird, in their right mind would want to do it?

© Diane Stevenson Schmolka (dedicated to Anne-Marie Macdonald, because of her book: The Way the Crow Flies)

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Page last modified on December 26, 2014, at 11:22 PM