A Murder of Crows by Sarah Kennedy
Perhaps they are ravens. Then I could write -
like the ones at the Tower of London
with one clipped wing each, flapping and scrabbling
for footing as they flop back to the ground:
emblems of the monarchy. Connoisseurs
of carrion, meat eaters, A Mirror
for Magistrates- "see how dark and feeble
are your designs on eternity." I
could invoke Poe’s icon of self-pity
and American woe, but what good would
that do now? Maybe they’re crows anyway.
I could toss a scoop of sunflower seed
and see if they go for it. Look at their
implacable three-toed boots, how they ravage
the grass. I wanted to write about flight,
a local apotheosis called up
by any murmur inside their domain.
Unkindness of ravens. Murder of crows.
When they mean to kill an enemy or
occupy a space, they "mob," which, though they’re
all in formation, looks just like chaos.
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