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