Lot

The crows are rather raucous as cold rain
comes down in sheets, their caws reverberate
across the parking lot to penetrate
my sleepy mind with barbs of harsh disdain;
November seldom promises a thing
except for loss, despite the extra hour
obtained, but I refuse to let their dour
derision cut me deep enough to sting.
I nonchalantly saunter to the pen,
my sentence (as it is) quite incomplete—
escaping, for the nonce, the final sheet
which emptily awaits this denizen.
Inside I’m laughing harder than those birds
for nothing mocks me louder than my words.