This is a world now with
only the songs of crows.
The robins are silent this year.
The cardinals call out now and then
but almost shyly.
The wrens call out but it
isn’t really a song and
wrens don’t count anyway
if you are a crow.

I have read about woods rich with bird song,
multi-layered, call-and-response, a bird
conversation or even a bird
investigation. Noise everywhere,
feathers floating to the ground
with tiny clinks as they land on leaves.

My bit of woods, now, down the street
is nearly silent. When I walk there
my feet crunch on sticks and acorns
and leaves. The crows talk.
Sometimes you see them,
their wings all glossy.
The silence seems to be waiting
as I breathe it in, a full breath, and
smell the autumn in the air.

Perhaps in the air is a crescendo in a crow song.
Perhaps the silence is music enough
For times such as these.