Old Crow

The old woman
wanders through town,
clad in black tattered
man’s overcoat,
a fast food paper crown,
worn, ancient tap shoes.

Birds follow
wherever she ambles,
their dark plumage
an endless wave of
swoop and lift.

Very early mornings
in the village square
she dances,
slow scraping softshoe,
shuffle tap, shuffle tap,
under the cupola’d roof
of the empty gazebo.

After, she curtsies,
tossing handfuls
of seed from her pockets.
The birds
rise and squawk
in a riotous ovation.


Mary Ellen Seidel