Crows take flight from pen point
Their flowing figures form the choir
Their silhouettes sharp against the white
Where the flock rests along the wire.
Writ within this hinged vertebrate
A glance rustles their black feathers
Their voices call out in our heads
From where they’re all nestled together.
Each back is bent to curve the gaze
Their claws grasp tightly to the sound
Beaks point about the compass rose
To guide the eye around.
They sing a song not of their own
Yet they echo nature in their stance
To navigate their messages
Is to learn the murders’ dance.