A lone crow settles
on the arched limb
of my silver birch.
He scans the sky,
then swoops to feast
on scraps and seeds.
I watch him sidestep
along the garden table,
peck at a crust
rise into the dusk
leaving behind
a single black feather.
I watch him roost
in the Scots Pine,
shelter for the night
from the numbing cold
of this bleak winter’s day.
