How Many Birds?

At the lightening of dawn, the barn Owl,
wings arcing and folding. A black
shadow settling on the crooked Oak,
to watch our morning ritual of coffee;
talking, reading and gone.

Out and about past the city lake
seeing a flock of Canadians, with duck
companions. Feather smoothed lumps
with long, bending necks, turned
from the wind, risking everything on
the thinnest patches of ice.

Walking the little Cocker on shiny
sidewalks. Their wings make a
whirring sound in the frigid air.
Passing low, a cluster of white
with orange and blackened eyes
floating across dull skies. Mute Swans.

Twelve in a crooked V first
and a pause, two more but
I am ready. I look up and one
looks down at me, face masked,
in shadows and looks ahead
like street strangers passing.

An encounter turns into a what
do you think of me? An indifferent
predator? Or, much better,
not even worth a thought. Do you
like my blue eyes? This human want
of knowing beauty is noticing you.

Then the crow; shiny, black body
bent over, lethal beak hooking
something lying on the road.
Watching too long for it
to miss the next car coming.
Why is it that's what I dream about?