Could be a stagnant, sunny day; could be soaked and drizzling. Along a row of dumpsters the crows hang out on the truss-work just above. Behind them, in the broad-leafed maple (leaves white with fungus, and crispy-brown singed edges) dozens of crows fly in and out, back and forth. Of the crows that have taken an interest in the trash, one will fly in, or on, a dumpster and poke around. Usually within a matter of seconds another decides to hop down, then three and four, and soon, the whole bunch of them are scared off as the fifth flies too close to the group for comfort. They all scatter to the chain-link fencing, or the cinder containing wall. Up in the trusses, one brave newcomer, tempted soul that he is, will decide to hop down and try his luck —and the pattern begins all over again. When a seagull takes an interest, he becomes king of the dumpster, and has his way with the trash of his choosing. The crows move around, cautiously, waiting their turn. Some, in a fit of aggression, peck and haw, but it is clearly an attempt to get out their frustration at the seagull, still having his way. It is certainly a feast, but the crows don’t seem to know this. To them it is always in the balance, always on the verge of being taken away. Somewhere— between the margins— there is a poem; O industrious crow, has it always been that we humans make such a heap of waste? Where then would you feast?

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