Harvest

All Autumn, crows raided the pecan tree,
Pecans past ripe in brittle cases, soured;
Thanksgiving to Christmas they harvested
In rowdy feast, wings flopping gracelessly,
Spindle feet scraping pavement when hopping
From one contested prize to another,
Raising cacophonous doxology
To whatever God has worship of beasts.

Advent winds now rattle empty debris,
Scattering shards of shell in the bleak yard;
Stripped of nuts and leaves, the black pecan tree
Trembles stiffly. From their quaking branches,
Black insensate creatures call orisons
And weightless fly into Winter's gray sky.

(December 24, 1996. The crows have returned for their annual seasonal harvest of our pecan tree. I am listening to them now, reminding me of this poem I wrote some years ago. I love the poem, because I use the word "doxology" in it, a longtime writer's ambition of mine.)

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