Crows Landing


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It’s hypnotic, watching
crows clunk:
clockwork,
black,
rickety, velvety,
rocking,
washing through the green
and owning
the bellybrushed grass.

A feathery posse
fanning out;
slow inking,
in a raggy hand,
their collective will.
Herding hopping starlings.
Threatening protectors.

Crows.

Oily, cloying caws
thieved or
crept from our dark innards,
night Templars
hooded and silhouetting
our primal
hearts.

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2 thoughts on “Crows Landing

  1. Never know my rooks from my crows.
    And yes, they are proprietary creatures, aren’t they.
    ‘collective will’ also sums them up .
    Very concentrated lines, high density poem.

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