Perched upon the telephone pole the crows watch the trash yard,
Miniature trapeze artists hopping with a surgeon's precision,
Wallowing in the culmination of earthly aroma, rising out of existence.
Swatted by the charred tires and week old cardboard coffee cups,
Chirps and shrilled squawks comment on the scurrying mice below.
Scampering from Chinese take-out cartons to towering soup cans,
Collecting for the night, scouring the yard's confines.
Cackles as the creatures stare at the colonies of rats nesting,
Holed up in worn out sneakers,
Piled atop one another like building blocks,
Defending the last rotten apple.
Swooping downwards in unison the crows grab the rodents,
By broken backs, wriggling tails, or paws in talon,
Weaving through telephone wires during ascension,
Roosting once more after the feast.
Rain drizzles down on the broken beaks,
Cawing for the lightning to strike.