Crows

14 crows perch on the neck
and shoulders of the middle-aged pine
squabbling no doubt over whose is
the blowing wrapper lifted from the bins

and whose is the too-much-so-toss-it
lettuce shreds, corn-fed cow bits
all a-splat, HFCS ketchup bleeding everywhere
from hideously smooth buns.

If they preen my eyes can't discern
but for a flash of sallow beak against black feather.
It's said that crows have voracious memories
and will pester anyone who disturbs them

remembering faces for years, memories
of ancient wrongs they've been storing
in the clouds far longer than any computer
so I studiously avoid shooing them

just measuring the 14 steps from my door to the ground
and 32 paces around the bend to my silver car
sometimes wondering where the color
in birds went, and where went their songs