This year more 
crows than usual.
I see them
at feeders,
where they’ve never been before,
watch them through the door

until they
lift, oddly cumbrous,
into day.
In what way
I have earned their attention
I can’t imagine.

Earlier,
they were calling to
each other,
just a bit
mournful, unpleasantly loud.
The whole crowd at once

cried warning,
cried “Look out!” and flapped
without flight,
then settled
to feed their slick crow bodies 
on old dried corn and seed.