Brickville Road, 6:50 a.m.

Soil black crows congregate in the cornfield
and clear their throats.
Aughh. Raughh.

“Spit it out, man!
If you have something to say, just say it,”
I call from the road.

“No, it’s just post-nasal drip. Sorry to bother you,”
they call back.
Aughh. Raughh.

“My apologies,” I mumble.
(What I had always attributed to rudeness in crows
was actually just spring allergies.) Ahem.