Crow and Robin

Bus stop girl.
Don't speak.
This wet morning
when the snails hang cold
from every chlorophylled green leaf
and the clouds stretch wrinkled
like a grey bedspread
in every lifted direction,
a drama unwinds.
Perched on the sag
in the phone line tightrope
sits the 2nd ave crow.
Against the monochrome gloom
of the sky
he is as menacing as
the benbow black spot.
With predator patience
the crow listens
to the robin's morse code
warnings,
its nothing dark eyes
fixed
on the maple treed nest.

"Weep! Weep! txori txori txori..."

Mother's wings flash and she veers in
but the crow is marble slab still.
The spotted eggs partner up
in the slowest slow dance
with inkspot magnet eyes
augering through the seconds
and into their shells.

"Weep! Weep! txori txori txori,"

and then as the crow leans into
his picadore dive,
two chickadees
streak in like angry ball bearings;
whistling frantic invective
and spitfire determined
to join this frightened mother
and drive off the shadowed
murderer.
With strings unseen
and movement so slight
the crow drafts up,
away and high
to a towering cedar masthead.
This will be their finest hour.