Driving out to look for Spring,
the morning fair and chill,
I passed a pair of crows
posing by the road on snow-dusted grass.
Silhouetted, tail to tail,
the one faced East, the other West,
and even when I braked and stopped,
neither one took wing.

Only a subtle twitch of tail
or shift of weight
betrayed their lack of ease--
an agitation there, I sensed,
as if engaged in some domestic strife
that left them mute and out of sorts,
their flight plans unresolved.
Did crows, I wondered, mate for life?

Driving on, soon out of sight,
I questioned for a mile or two,
were they flapping off to Buffalo
or following me home?
Or were the two of them still bristling
by the roadside there--
black bookends on a field of white
and brilliant April green.