A Murder of Crows

A murder of crows stirs
in the tree that is my heart.

Morning light warms black feathers
and then they take flight,

dark premonitions scattering
on the day’s errant winds.

Words spill like autumn leaves.
Snakes bask in the heat

of the compost pile.
Crows are ubiquitous,

they can stand the cold.
I know they’ll come home

to roost on bare limbs in a tree
gaunt as a saint in winter.

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Published by

Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner

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