Late November
and the crows are being noisy
as they fly from tree to barren tree
in groups of two or three
making their Caw / Caw / Caw sounds
to no one in particular

In my neighborhood - it is otherwise quiet
with everyone warm indoors
waiting for dinner to be served.

I smoke a Mote Cristo and
feel the weather turn quickly
from a long Indian summer to
the first days of wintery gloom.

The clouds overhead are heavy and gray—
with small patches of blue scattered in between.

My creativity has been lost for months in a blur of busyness—yet
I feel a thread of sentences forming on top of
my consciousness as I search for a pen and some
white paper to jot down these errant impressions.

It feels good—but I am afraid this burst of energy is brief.

I've spent the morning catching up—cleaning the dirty bird-feeders
in hopes of bringing them back to feed.
They are fun to watch but require lots of dedication and money—the late
summer left  them plenty to nibble.

Everything else around me is either dull green or shades of rusty iron.

A certain peace surrounds me in this moment of reflection— the crows
are still talking and dancing from bare limb to bare limb.