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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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