Contributed by Kat Cavanaugh LaMantia
There is a choir of ravens on the wire above my sidewalk
Black beaked and spaced like notes on a staff
hunger conducts a concert
They squawk and knock and trill proudly
like anything but beggars
They know there is bread in my kitchen
and sometimes some old chicken
They will not go away gently nor be quiet,
not the old ones anyway
They have already observed my interest,
calculated my resistance and plucked me
like a fat vole at the feeder
They play poker of sorts and lay down bets
on how long it will take me to throw something out
once they set up shop
Winner goes first to the food
There is a dance they do, like a sort of grace,
before they begin
The young wait for the old more out of
caution than respect
Today I baked two loaves of bread
and they got one of them
I was pretty sure I heard them laughing
as I closed the door