This tale’s nothing new,
as everyone knows
There’s nothing as sad
as the sorrow of crows.
Other birds sing so sweetly
their music and song
But crows are in mourning
for what has gone wrong.
They remind us of error,
of pride and self-will:
Their sound, so discordant,
no soft little trill;
Their sad, cranky cry,
Their constant complaint,
If they only had thumbs,
they’d have fun, they could paint!
Or play cards or make biscuits
Oh! Biscuits they love!
Toss bits on the lawn
They’ll fly down from above
But won’t stop complaining,
It’s all that they utter –
All the while that they’re eating,
“Where’s the jam? Why no butter?”
They’re never content
in their glossy black clothes
As they perch on the clothesline
in glossy black rows
And complain to each other
what our garden lacks
In the way of large fountains
and licorice snacks.
But we do our best,
if they left we’d miss them
(which isn’t to say that we’d
hug or kiss them!)
For crows are stand-off-ish
if you’re not of their kind,
If not one of their species,
they really would mind.
We live here together,
The best that we’re able
Some of us steady,
Some are unstable.
Crankier birds I don’t
Think you can find
Than the crows that we’ve got
But we really don’t mind
‘Cause the crows don’t mind us
No matter how cheerful
Or chatty or happy or
How much an earful
Of singing and talking
And chirping we might
Beginning at dawn and
Keep up half the night.
Leslie Lippincott Hidley has been writing prose and poetry for her own amusement and that of her family and friends and others for most of her 76 years. And one of her ten grandchildren is named Kalliope. She has lived in Walla Walla, Washington; Frankfurt and Bremerhaven, Germany; Upper New York State; Enid, Oklahoma; Montgomery and Prattville, Alabama; Lubbock, Texas; Dover, Delaware; West Palm Beach, Florida; Goose Bay, Labrador; Washington, D.C.; Fairfield, California; Omaha, Nebraska; and now resides in Ojai (Nest-of-the-Moon), California, where she continues to write.
Sparks of Calliope 