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March Slice of Life No. 12.

Relaxing in lawn chairs, we soak up the warm March sun. EM is bouncing around, shooting hoops, rolling on her belly on the basketball, sitting on the porch steps.

Caw…caw! Caw…caw! The raucous call of a crow comes from the walnut tree.
Awk…awk! Awk…awk!  With her hand cupped around her mouth, leaning over the porch rail to look into the tree better, EM replies to the crow in a loud raspy voice.


Caw…caw!  Caw…caw!
Awk…awk!  Awk…awk!

Back and forth they call to each other — the shiny black bird in the walnut tree and the blonde five-year-old girl on the porch.

Tiring of her crow conversation, EM hops off the porch and joins us.
Me: EM, what was the crow telling to you?
EM, shrugging her shoulders: I don’t know.

Me: You don’t know what the crow was saying?
EM, frowning: I don’t know crow.
Me: But you were talking to the crow.

EM, emphatically: I was making sounds, Gramma. I don’t talk crow.

Later, after the sun set, I put my opinion of crows into a poem. I chose to follow the American Cinquain form developed by Adelaide Crapsey: title, followed by 5 lines with 2, 4, 6, 8 and 2 syllables.


Raucous voices
Angry black sleek scolders
Crop-stealers, dive bombing murder
Caw, caw

© 2018, Alice Nine


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