Three fat crows were sitting in my neighbor's driveway
when I walked out the door this morning to go
to the coffee shop. “Christ,” I thought
“not three. Not again.” Then they hopped,
syncopated, up on a low lying branch,
paying no attention to me
and (just my luck!)
didn't even turn my direction.
It's cold this morning – feels like winter
one week before Thanksgiving.
Even the stalwart gray haired men
who huddle under stoops outside of the coffee shop
to smoke cigarettes and curse the young
rush back inside,
rather than settle in to solve
the problems of the world
between cups of coffee,
and stories of girls they may have known
once, years ago,
before they achieved the wisdom require
to come in from the cold
and seek good company.
Three crows perched
on an dead November tree branch
have as much a chance
as old men sipping coffee
and telling tales, dreaming
of a summer
when the skirts will be shorter
and the lies will be more interesting.
The only difference between their stories
is the point of view.