first their concerted honks—
unseen, then
as apparitions they rise
from foliage at the foot of the hill
framed in window sash
they climb to the cackles of crows
already at breakfast in our yard
arrayed upon green sheet, black notes
of an almost endless chord
ostinato of the articulated
sounds of vees that appear overhead
levitating geese in glass
all of a boundless chord drawn-out
a day in the life and vanish
beyond the window top
truck tires hum on tar dopplering down
around a bend —played out
a last crow lifts off speaking kaaa!
the last word
Jim Culleny
9/5/18
Blink 