Two ink-black crows plummet down
to the brown, frost-skinned grass
squawking: Kaak – Kak – KaAak.
Then, startled by my rowdy
copper dogs, thrash back
into a ghost gray sky.
Snips of freeze-dried, new-year’s-snow
drift past, monotonous as confetti –
too cold to stick to this
tintype landscape.
Inkberry bushes
and a bottle-green cane brake
augur a future season, but
the rust-coated retrievers are too busy
marking a utility pole to study on spring.
The brisk air makes them frisky.
Again, the surly, trash-talking birds
drop to earth: Yak – YaAak – Yaak,
they nag, ruffle mirror black fletchings
while they strut and caw and bitch like
mothers scolding mulish sons.
GaAak – GAak – Gak,
they niggle:
Winter Is Back!
