Down on the north shore
The crows are omniscient
Heavy in the air like ash
tossed up from a pile of paper
All a smolder
A movement posed to break out
From the shop roofs and car tops
They clatter their counsels
And stare
Its the kind of land and air invasion dictators dream of
We are occupied this winter
By mercenaries, who
Give no regard to where they crap
Or whose ordered cans of refuse
They toss about
When backs are turned, their judgements severe
But in the light, they taunt high overhead
lapping against the clouds
Overshadowing thoughts
with their song
Or perched
Thousands of death-dark gems
Set in evergreen
staring
One thought on “A Massacre of Crows”