Crows Feet

They bend the boughs
such raucous fruit
and coat the bony trees
like soot
in search of bags
through which to root
to find a juicy
scrap of loot;

then with dawn they’re gone
the scavengers of night move on
to dim the sky, indemnify
an aging son that soon will die
demoralized, ostracized
beside the stream that rushes by
chaotically, hypnotically
to fool the most observant eye
encased in lines that lend a hint
how often we are forced to squint.