|Oct/Nov 2012 Poetry|
Evening shifts as if pageants of ants were fondling
the tops of trees, inciting the shadows to flinch.
Silhouettes of leaves smear across the shingles
of my neighbor's roof in the failing orange light.
The ground is in the dark already. Headlights paint
mirages of Venetian blinds on the wall above the TV.
A diva down the block strums on an out-of-tune guitar
and sings misremembered lyrics in the wrong key.
A crow on a curving wire recites a few remarks
to the nearby members of his murder.
"The light is gone," he calls. "The night is on the air.
Our sentinels scan the perimeter. Our fledglings
soon will fly. Tonight we rest with one eye on the street
and the other in the realm where crows are kings."