A DECEMBER POEM

CROWS ON FROST

A murder of crows in black, in black:
They strut and flap and hop, complain
Upon the frost-tipped grass across
The Lane. A field of stubborn growth
In California winter (mild
Beside the Bay), with spiteful ice
And bitter green, the frothy hue
Of spinach creamed, black peppered
With, of course, the crows, who would
Be proud to be coarse ground or even cracked,
To match their rasping voices which,
To me, are welcome more than
Fruity songs on winter days. Prefer
The wise-ass caws of skeptic crows
To birdsong in a season of short
Days and long cold nights; sarcastic
Quips in muttered sotto voce jibes
Have kept a crew alive through hardship
More than lyric songs. Good bos’uns cultivate
A crow caw voice, and reprobate demeanor
As they croak “I seen it all, and this ain’t bad
As it might be so grab your socks and hit the
Deck you sons of bitches.” Crows continue
Day by day to say, to say, this very speech
To one another, rain or shine: it ain’t as bad
As it might be. Sure, watch them fly sometime:
Though masters of the art they joke,
Cut up, play silly buggers in the air,
To say “This flying gig is not so tough
That we can’t screw around. Without
A joke what’s worth a fart?” And this is sound
Advice on frosty mornings.


Jan Adkins, 23 December 2010, Novato, California

BRAXINOSO SPEAKS

Himself has always been fond of crows. They're black, dire, difficult to categorize, hardy and foolish. Of course he has a connection to them. He doesn't write about cute little birdies, probably because he has a tendency to talk tough. Creampuff.