The crows were talking in the pines.
How they reveled in rudeness,
half laughing, half crying
as they told the truth straight out
again and again, as if all the world were deaf.
It was a strange, ironic love that kept them aloft.
Turned each insult into a dark new feather.
A blue jay with a haircut
at the feeder turned to look at me.
“Nice hair cut,” I said
and he flew away.
As for me,
I let my hair grow down to my shoulders.
But no matter how I wore it, short or long,
I was always “a sight” to him.
Again and again.