TWO CROWS

Two crows sit on a sycamore limb amid a snowstorm. Which sounds like the start of an off-color joke, something a comic might have told in one of those little Catskills clubs back in the old days. A joke that had to be cleaned up when television came around and the audience became uncountable families watching a flickering box in their living rooms and parlors. Two crows sit on a sycamore limb amid a snowstorm. The river broods along below them, inscrutable, dark and gray as old pewter. The sky overhead is a lighter gray, a tone midways between water and snow. White, black, a couple of grays. A scene you could render perfectly in pencil. Two crows sit on a sycamore limb amid a snowstorm. Side-by-side, hunched against the wind and cold, old friends discussing the weather, or some devilment they intend for later in the day. I'm restless by the fireside, watching river and snow, envious because those companionable birds have the better seat.