Crows are very vocal, crying out to each other.
Who knows what they say.
It may be “I am pretty”
or they might say “I know the way.”
They swoop in and get real quiet
when they find a morsel sitting on the ground
No alerts are called out then
Not wanting others coming round.
Black bird looks around to see if all is safe.
“This is my food and I shall eat it.
I would prefer that others would caw and caw
but for now that they just beat it.”
Yet should my cawing suddenly go silent
and they recall where last I was
To me a scout they will have sent
to help determine the cause.
For I care not to share my new found food
But when they appear to gulp it,
I won’t protest the arrival of the brood
With whom the chow I will split.
Because these are the guys and gals
who grew up in my hood.
And as we peck and chew and peck
I’m too busy eating to scold.
We crows are on the lookout
for food and foes alike.
When we find the first, we eat, but
with the others make a terrible fight
Other birds are prettier, we are cunning true
but when the black bird caws you must admit
you look to see from whence it came
and he is too into it to ever quit.
This poem I cannot finish,
I just can’t find the words.
But this I know is ever true
There will always be black birds.
by Bob Bekins, September, 2015