Sunday, December 20, 2009

Ron Vazzano


Two crows crossing stop to caw.
If they could they would shake hands.
They go back a long ways—that’s clear.
The body language is all there.

On this narrow sidewalk adjacent to
a rectangular sprawl of urban grass
they block my path. I must walk around them.
They take no notice. Given their wings,

they could own the open sky;
they could exchange air-mails if they chose.
On foot? Hop over to the grass—caw there.
Pick a branch or bench on which to perch.

Who here has the right of way?
But for two old friends who have seen it all
they are only aware of each other at present.
And I’m forced to walk around them.

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