A Hundred Crows

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.