Gyroscope of Crows

Circles move within circles
Swoop swirl dive & rise
Over a faded green muddle field
Next to last
Month of the year
Compressed afternoon cold & bright
White sun crested and already dipping
Follows its clipped arc

Blackness so deep it shines
How many are there?
Four six five?
Precise as surgeons
Sharp edged carving space
Among themselves as if they sky is theirs

Cut to pieces the air falls
In shadows to the ground
And refills itself
Unhinged, leaves fall
Trees bare drained and
Shrunk into themselves

The Bay lifts its shoulders
Bristles shivers once & sparkles
As much as November can
Turning over & into itself
Sparkles roll off and away
To edges where
First ice will bloom

Only the crows are undaunted
Energized enthralling defiant
For a moment I discern their dance
Their gyration stops for a moment …

And I see in that moment or through it
Invisible strings
Vibrating crow to crow
And bursting hiding in plain sight
Lining leaves trees breeze waves

For a moment …
As the year winds down
Just when it should
And just how it should
To its last day

And it’s not just me watching
Surf turf oak ash cedar loam ledge
The brown and the green and the silver
Needle stem cone ripple root foam mud
Like the stage and the stagehands
The players and the play
Watching the crows dance

… And they start again
Before I even know
What I saw
Like they never stopped
Wingcurve beakcurve blacksmiles
Scissor, slant & swing
Gyroscope of crows
Gyroscope of smiles
Not for me or us
For the joy of being them