A Crow Calls

There’s a crow calling

outside my front door

this clear, sunny day 

in mid-winter. I look out. 

Oh, he’s a big one, fat

as a lump of coal

but rounder.

He bursts from the tree

at speed, to follow the harsh 

cry I can only just hear

of another, further away.

His bright yellow beak 

shines against that mass 

of solid black.

Then they are gone, both.

Down the hill to other

houses? Or into the near

patch of forest? Different 

birds, more melodious, return 

to my yard; warble. 

(But I like crows.)