Connie Resneski
A Plethora of Punchdrunk Crows Roosting in the Venerable Ash

A murder of crows
the size of fryer chickens,
boisterous hooligans rioting
in the venerable ash in my
backyard, have chosen this
place unwisely to power up
their cacophony of song.

A hunting permit is required
to silence them - something
I do not hold - could never use
in an attempt to shoot a seemingly
inordinate number of scavengers
roosting above the lawn swing
beneath the tree.

The deafening noise of these
songbirds attracts my neighbor,
dairy farmer, Tex, who has taken
upon himself the task of silencing
the colossal crows with a solitary
gunshot from his dilapidated
1875 Remington rifle.

The punch drunk fowl having
most likely feasted throughout
the night on the holly berries
out front while most of us slept,
flee from their roost, besmirching
the sky with a smudge the size of
Kenosha, Wisconsin.

The constancy of their screech,
recedes into the heavens blotting
out the sun - day morphs into night.
I ride out the darkness in a chilly haze
as they leave for greener pastures,
a morsel of road kill, perhaps the
old man's cornfield.

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