one hundred crows

a crow reunion came upon me,

in the heat of an August day,

one hundred crows did gather,

in the river oak,

and in the leaning pine,

and in the old magnolia tree.

they came cawing, cawing,

in swirls of feathered flurry,

"To the ground!"

one called,

and at least a dozen followed,

to poach the field of wildflower seeds,

and others followed suit.

"To the telephones lines!"

one called,

and at least a dozen followed,

and set upon the  lines

in some mystic randomness,

as if composing a harmony

of cawing notes in feathered ink

on lines of electronic conversations.

this noisy clan of cousin crows,

table hopped from tree to tree,

a few caws here among these crows,


a few caws there among those crows,

passing chattered bits of this and that,

back and forth,

about us and them,

this gathering of crows,

who seemed to be so much the same,

but in time, I learned each different name,

and then just when

it would never end,

they flew away,

these one hundred crows,

heading west,

and out of sight,

cawing as they went,

leaving me behind,

in the sizzling silence

of a hot and empty August day.





The End

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