Beating the Air
Life goes on…
A whoosh over my shoulder —
like wet laundry flapping in the face of a spring storm —
and the crow glided low down the street,
as if the stick in his beak weighed him down,
holding him a little closer to the earth.
He landed in the pine, the one with the fuzzy long needles
and the lop-sided top, and then disappeared
into the green.
I saw him again, many hours later, with his lady love,
the one he carries sticks for.
En rapt in crow talk, they discussed logistics
before flying off again, shiny wide wings beating the air,
in search of more twigs and things with which to build a nest.
I listened to their conversation,
carried on the wind,
and thought about their unflappability
during this raging human viral storm.
And I am watching, waiting, for those baby crows.
