Daily

Murder of crows, four in number dark stout and content
Perch patiently on the roof of an abandoned car
By the side of a busy road on the edge of a lane
Staring at slow moving traffic with glee
Tasting the salt of the sea in the air
Taunting the hurrying crowd with restful beaks

Pack of smoking cars  innumerable nudging and coughing
Slow,  moving halting on dry pimpled road
Passing the tall weary concrete brothers
Eyeing the crows,  the abandoned joys
Poking the fellow travelers with charge of haste
Teasing the leisure with revving engines