The House That Drove The Crows In
Mourning Doves and Starlings could never be spotted cresting the mossy rooftops,
Nor perched on chipped window ledge.
Pale blue siding never willed the Vireo’s song,
Nor did stained glass windows bring the wren.
Gusts of wind carried the seasons into next,
But never came juncos to the snow-topped lawn.
Starved sparrows seeking sustenance sought rather to fly overhead than survey insects by the pond.
Past water-logged doorway, and down decrepit hall,
Oil slick feathers, like confetti, litter the floor and walls.
Over the southern most ridge came three crows lured by a mischievous distant glint of light.
They caw at each other as if to tell of the sight.
One bird strained to part the metal with its beak;
but instead the door chimed a tune, worn and weak.
The beacon of light, unobtainable by the crows,
By morning through daylight, would call more to the doorstep in droves.
Cowboy Christmas riding into town
