A Hundred Crows
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After the wall passed by, the clouds moved over in a slow turn like the edges of a whirlpool.
Everything was so quiet, just the strong breeze could be heard. The bright green grass was an amazing contrast to the dark soggy trees and steel gray skies.
The birds were not flying; just clinging to the swaying branches of the oak tree, all pointed Southeast, winds at their tails.
On a walk after the worst of the Sandy storm
I slogged down the still dampening
Green grass valley rutted between
The moldering fences of the shadowed alley.
Under the low, ominously rushing, soggy gray clouds
I saw so many black birds silently
Clinging against the stiff breezes
To the broken branches of the skeletal oak on the corner
As if they relished the fate of the cruelly stripped leaves.
I saw a hundred crows there.
How many make a murder?
Black pointy wraiths;
Scattered commas lined up like
Iron shavings stuck
To magnetic branches.
Dull steel skies slid in vast arcs around them.
Sprinkling windy foreboding,
Their clouds reached down
To Collect their talons.
So many eyes I know they see
Spiny black needles poking out of me.
Bloodless murder, muffling gray gauze No need to caw…,
A hundred crows see it all.
Copyright © Kevin Lawrence | Year Posted 2018
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