November Saturday. . .
music to play
an instrument
and things to do
but wondering what
was meant
by and for this day. . .
a clear blue sky
shatteringly bright
the for-now restored flow
of the for-years-thirsty creek below,
and above,
a bevy of scrub jays
here and there,
yack and make a brief racket,
and flap their wings,
hop fast about
to get in, snatch what they want,
and just as quickly,
fly back out
like a band of bandits,
while a kindred team
of croaking crows
perch on phone poles,
street lights,
or stately trees,
and survey
the snapshot human scene. . .
And then, quietly,
one twists its neck,
perhaps thinking
of where to scavenge that next
meal, snack, or tasty bite,
as it looks all around–
much more than just
both ways–
before it descends into
its bended knees
and bunches up
the muscled wings high on its back
to spring and spread,
as birds will do,
its whole self
and take flight.
The Danforth Anchor 