A pair of crows –

fragments of night,

dark clad and

shining –

pluck the maple’s

red confetti

blooms.

Pass below.

Scatter robins

through last year’s

fallen leaves.

Bound and bonded

to earth,

accept the drift

of sooty corvid voices,

of scarlet petals –

blessings of slow

progress.

— C.Birde, 4/18