Crows in March

A tablecloth of leaves a winter old,

a centerpiece of moss burning green.

All courtesy, crows on foot approach

the feast of corn I've set them. Most kind,

most kind. An elegant sufficiency,

more would be redundancy. Most grateful.

Mourners! Puritans! Salesmen! Who was shouting

a moment ago? Who was that flourishing

a cape as he arrived? Who were those hoodlums

cutting across the field against the sky?

                                                                        DL