Crows In Rain Poem by Sonny Rainshine

Can it be that there are a hundred gradients
of gray? that water and the residue of the sun
transform the red of brick storefronts to gray-red,
the green of the ash trees to a wash of ash?

Into the distorting mist come the crows, enraged
by the sudden weight of the wind, sodden,
shuddering in the earthbound cloud, watching
on the wires, black notes on a suspended staff.

Two cardinals and a blue jay, equally incensed
at the elements, perch near the black-gowned
divas and dons, Their intense tints muted
by mist, for once cannot upstage the crows.

Today the other birds seem like shadows
of shadows. But the birds in black tails have no commerce
with ostentation and showy apparel:
They sit and wait like consecrated gods.