Crows dive bomb the pear tree
knock fruit to the ground
descend upon it—
peck the fallen delicacies
with gusto— slurping, devouring—
leave only hollowed skins
limp and weeping on the grass.
We applaud their diligence
the industry of their harvesting,
while we are busily packing boxes
preparing to move, a wearying task.
Watching crows gives me reason
to pause, and I think of them writing
accounts of their feasting
in crow journals late at night—
of pear juice dripping down