“why have you gathered?”

I yell, and the crows scream back as one,

Harsh cries from above me,

Dark birds are calling.

They call some more–

And more of their kind come,

One missing black wingfeathers,

He alights, and flies off into

The dark of the coming night.

The murder of crows

Takes flight–

Away from the sky’s blood,

Away from the setting sun.

The split-wing first.

I follow–

They perch above a sad gray house,

They look down,

Call as one.

What is coming?

What has passed?

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