With feathers of black, the crow

swoops, agitated

by the sight just outside

his treasured nest.

Head bobbing, with a crick

of scrawny neck, he hops

with purpose, claws skittering

over the gritty earth.

And stops.

With a caw, he opens his wings,

jeers; with this puffed-up reveal

hopes to fearfully impress…

Where is the egress?

Symbol of death, in disbelief,

receives nothing as reaction,

and so the one becomes two

(lifelong mate retrieved, irked,

from inside their prized nest).

Not quite a murder, still

they hover, circle, beady eyes wide-open,

staring as a test; believe too much

in their cunning ways, shared

secret dialect, and that dark

plotting will benefit them


Not so.

For, in the face of two crows

the object of malintent is winner

(so says Lady Luck).

In studying their deemed intruder,

in memorizing behaviour,

they reveal their own:

vicious, self-concerned;

loud and aggressive.

But stop,

they never will.

“Stone the crows.”