Crow Poems Part III
The Stiff-Hipped Walk of Old Man Crow
By Kristen Clapper Bergsman
A roomful of old men all tell their stories at once and squabble over the details. A cacophony of crow calls fills the room: craws, barks, croaks and groans. They quiet just long enough to hear one man's joke whistle out from between his teeth. Crowing with laughter, they rock back into their chairs and slap their knees, a cloud of black dust rising in the room. They crack corn out of a bowl with their worn-down yellowed teeth, wiping their fingers on their soiled breasts. Black eyes flash when the last kernel is gone. A man crosses the room, blackened nails clicking on the floor as he labors across it with a stiff-hipped gait. He walks with his barrel chest thrown forward, tail stuck way out, so that his head bobs with each awkward step.
One man, with oily black hair, tries to get the others' attention by loudly tapping his cane on the linoleum. As he taps the cane, his thoughts roll around in his throat. He wonders why he roosts with these fellows. Why the bother? He craws to himself, tap-tapping the cane. Then, forgetting what he wanted anyway, he sits back deep into his chair cushions, settling down his ruffled feathers and smoothing out the wrinkles. He eyes the empty bowl.
Old Man Crow fingers the treasures in his pocket, careful to not let anyone else see his collection. He wiggles his fingers, stirring the jumble of precious items. He allows the pieces to clank and click, his own soft song, but when detected by a pair of questioning black eyes from a corner of the room, glares defiantly and with threat. By touch, he knows what each piece is: a silver dime so polished that the knee of his pants has been rubbed shiny; a tangled glittering knot of an unwound audiotape; a folded scrap of aluminum foil, slightly tarnished; and a dented bottle cap. He takes out the dime, rolling it between two fingers so that it catches the light, then remembering the threat of thieves, quickly deposits it back in the pocket. Trusting no one, tomorrow he will cache it somewhere new, somewhere safer.
By Kristen Clapper Bergsman
A roomful of old men all tell their stories at once and squabble over the details. A cacophony of crow calls fills the room: craws, barks, croaks and groans. They quiet just long enough to hear one man's joke whistle out from between his teeth. Crowing with laughter, they rock back into their chairs and slap their knees, a cloud of black dust rising in the room. They crack corn out of a bowl with their worn-down yellowed teeth, wiping their fingers on their soiled breasts. Black eyes flash when the last kernel is gone. A man crosses the room, blackened nails clicking on the floor as he labors across it with a stiff-hipped gait. He walks with his barrel chest thrown forward, tail stuck way out, so that his head bobs with each awkward step.
One man, with oily black hair, tries to get the others' attention by loudly tapping his cane on the linoleum. As he taps the cane, his thoughts roll around in his throat. He wonders why he roosts with these fellows. Why the bother? He craws to himself, tap-tapping the cane. Then, forgetting what he wanted anyway, he sits back deep into his chair cushions, settling down his ruffled feathers and smoothing out the wrinkles. He eyes the empty bowl.
Old Man Crow fingers the treasures in his pocket, careful to not let anyone else see his collection. He wiggles his fingers, stirring the jumble of precious items. He allows the pieces to clank and click, his own soft song, but when detected by a pair of questioning black eyes from a corner of the room, glares defiantly and with threat. By touch, he knows what each piece is: a silver dime so polished that the knee of his pants has been rubbed shiny; a tangled glittering knot of an unwound audiotape; a folded scrap of aluminum foil, slightly tarnished; and a dented bottle cap. He takes out the dime, rolling it between two fingers so that it catches the light, then remembering the threat of thieves, quickly deposits it back in the pocket. Trusting no one, tomorrow he will cache it somewhere new, somewhere safer.
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