Morning chronicle

A murder of crows are circling the big oak tree  
just beyond the garden  
they do that every morning at this time
 
there's a faint knocking coming from next door
and it's the kind of knock  
that says whoever is doing the knocking  
was s'posed to be back hours ago  
and can't decide  
whether they want the door answered or not
 
the goldfish in the small glass bowl must never sleep
all it seems to do is eat  
or swim around clockwise, always clockwise  
then stop and stare outwards for a minute or two  
I wonder, if it had the means to kill itself  
would it take the opportunity  
 
first light is trickling through the rain clouds  
making those white beams  
you'd see emanating from Jesus's head  
in some paintings  
 
and now they're shouting at each other next door
I've heard this play out countless times
because the walls are so thin
it's hard to ignore the voices, then the bangs  
then the cries