Two for Mirth

A pair of crows are arguing on the fence
across the street from my office window.
It’s not a big argument, full of caws
and flashing beaks. No, it’s a comfortable
quarrel of picking feathers and well-reasoned
fluffing feathers and hopping away a few inches.

One has flown and I am sad for the remaining,
sure that sorrow has come to stay.
She flutters away for a moment or two,
but she always comes back to the same perch.
Her eyes search the sky and I know if I look later,
evidence of her nervous talons will be seen on the wood.

I’ve finished my breakfast and I’m starting the second
cup of tea, consumed with numbers and calculations.
Human issues of taxes and income and lost revenues
take up the majority of my mind, but occasionally my eyes
flit to the waiting crow. She’s still there on her fence rail.
I assume she’s anxious for his return, but maybe she knows

right around 10 o’clock a sweeping black will cross my sight.
I watch him settle beside her, a peanut in his beak
and a shiny ribbon tangled about his foot.
The peanut is passed between them, the ribbon swaying pretty.
A comfortable quarrel continues, but the hopping away is traded
for gentle nudges, head touches, while spring laughs around them.