The third murder of crows this morning,
silhouettes flat black against the sky,
caws their old men’s argument outside my screen,
stacking in the maples, pecking for position.
I watch with no idea why
this third murder of crows in a morning
stitches the air, no inhibition,
raising their ratchet voices high,
cawing their old men’s argument beyond my screen.
Some might shiver with superstition,
worrying that it means someone will die.
But this third murder of crows in a morning
sounds to me the very definition
of freedom as they crowd and cry,
cawing their old men’s argument beyond my screen.
They stir in me a longing and ambition
to break my human chains and with them fly.
The third murder of crows this morning
caws their old men’s argument outside my screen.
