A crow on a branch

of that old Norway maple

and then another

a third alights

and off they fly to the backyard trees.

They are free to go

and return,

as is the lone gull

and the loon who passes

on his daily flight

from lake to bay

and the cardinal couple

always in tandem

and the robins in late winter

nipping at the wrinkled burgundy crab apples.

They range over our plots

and lots and garden fences

our tenderly tended slices

of the village pie.

Perhaps I’ll hang a house and a feeder

to lure these songsters

these blues and yellows, browns and reds

into my domesticity.

But really what I want is

that lift at my shoulder blades

that unfolding of wings

that unrehearsed melody

as I take to the air

through the open window.