Blistering crow feet
Corvids in our time of incalescence
Big-city black wings shine the burn.
Taloned black feet, three digits forward, one back,
hop on hot asphalt, pogo toward shade.
Their caws don’t rasp nasty now,
but murmur suppressed soft barks,
weak to the ear—these dog-tired birds
that wait for the therapeutic sundown,
when they fly to the suburbs and gather
in large oaks and maples beside fallow fields,
make murders among themselves
as darkness settles and their caws quiet.
Tito Titus