Crows

Yesterday my neighbour, who lives in an apartment on the roof of the church across the street, put a chicken bone out on the flattish zinc roof for the crows. I suppose the crows are the same crows, usually two flying over, keeping an eye on things, sitting on the buttresses, fun to watch. Anyway one crow let the other crow (dominant?) peck at the bone, as if it, the second, unfed, crow were keeping watch. The second crow, while I was watching at least, didn't get much to eat. Today the bone--which looks clean now--is still there and right now there's a crow sitting on some stones higher up, looking undecided about whether to come down or not.

I've been working on my Ms, which is due at the beginning of January, reading poems I admire, tweaking. It's hard to stay objective about your own--or someone else's poems--you know them too well, so one thing I do, is read others, then look at my own stuff. For half an hour or so I can see my own work as an outsider might see it, then it is again over-familiar, and I need to stop working. When you have time to forget about things for a while, then you can come back to them, but I'm too close to the deadline for this book to let go of them.

Lunchtime. Maybe try to see the Degas exhibit this afternoon--if there aren't lines?