If I Were A Ro-Man…

…I’d no doubt be able to make some sort of augery out of this…

There’s a short tree I can see from my window, and every day, it’s crammed full of enormous crows. They look like the tree’s black fruit. But ever since the Cooper’s Hawks returned (as they do every summer) to the neighbor’s ash tree, one of them has taken to daily attack runs on the crows in the tree. The hawk flies straight into the branches, sending crows scattering everywhere. But the hawk never stays to fight with the crows, and the crows return after the hawk’s attack. Nothing seems to be accomplished. And every day, another dive, another scattering.

Comments

  1. AnotherCoward says

    No feasting on crow flesh? ever?

  2. Matthew,

    Perhaps not Horace, but here you are:

    Cooper’s Lament

    Each summer, crows rest in a tree outside my window;
    Cooper’s hawks return,
    Their beaks sharp and stern
    In profile, to this scene of multiple crimes, the crow
    That hurts their horizon, their brief summer welcome worn

    Thin as talons that will swiftly strafe the empty air:
    Hawk flies at crow and
    Crow scatters. The end
    Is nowhere in sight and yet tidy nature’s nature
    Gives to each, a time and space to possess and an end.

    Nothing in nature is wasted; yet this seems futile.
    Bulbous crow clusters
    In darkened murders –
    Hawks close in, mortally accurate and more brutal
    In each succeeding failed sortie launched from my neighbor’s

    Into my backyard where all things possessed possess
    Me and what is mine.
    Is this all a sign?
    To show where time’s carcass waits, more or less and less,
    In the hastening path of each hawk’s dead-eyed line

    Of attack? Is the signal patient in crow’s black eye –
    Yielding war’s omen
    In the plain “Amen”
    Of peace, the moment surrender’s hinge-rusted cry
    Defeats surprise, when triumph’s meat tastes like carrion?

    JOB

  3. Deep Furrows says

    Matthew,
    you may enjoy this weird little flash thingy:
    Tiny Grow
    Augury or no . . .

    Fred

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