A crow perches on a branch outside my window,
it's a big old oak, no leaves only buds.
Spring.
Orioles nest in the dried cattails,
I hear them in there,
periodically they chase the crow.
Spring.
There is a familiarity I see in the crow,
movements reminding me of
a spirit I once knew. But it wasn't
Spring.
I watch as the crow returns
each time to the same branch
at the level of the window,
sometimes I think he looks in.
He is alone this
Spring.