Revisions on a Sunny Morning

A murder of crows assaults the pecan tree.

Steady, they deliberate, attack the nuts,

replace the space an ordinary nut

falls through to muddy ground, treat

the delicious interior pulp as gold

mined from the highest branches laced with frost.

Crows fall through my windowpane at angles,

springing up later as marionettes;

dance down, and then again rise up, accost

the still point furrowing my quadrangle,

black curliques in a paragraph vignette

riding the blackness of the deep frost.

Cold chair, light from the window, wish for wings.

The pace of crows is exactly what it is.