Murder

don't make

a crime of this

it's just a bunch of crows

at first light gathered

on the roof squawking

to the world

about out-of-order

occurrences or

something sinister

they've foreseen

 

hell they

don't even soil

the shingles

at this time of day

 

the crime is how

we have forgotten

the ancient art

of interpreting

what they say

 

or worse turn

in our beds away

from the window

suffused with

morning light

 

refusing to wake

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Great White