Far from the Madding Crows
There’s a murder of crows convening
outside my window, debating some fine point
of avian semiotics in raucous squawks.
Moriarty hasn’t blinked since they arrived,
his tail thwapping back and forth anticipating
the juicy dark meat, if only he could get through the glass.
Bobo’s oblivious below. He’s mad about Moriarty
and misinterprets the feline tail so he wags
back as if he were being offered a treat.
I madden them both by spending my days
facing a box that glows when there’s prey
and fun to be had outside
and only I can open the door.