Crows circle high above
Cawing to each other, calling
Then down, down, down they come
Lightly they are falling

“I wish I could fly away too,”
I whisper up into the air
“So I could go somewhere nicer
And avoid these hostile glares”.

“I wish I could fly away
To a place where I am not wrong
To a place where I fit in
Somewhere I belong”.

I look down from the sky again,
Back down to the floor.
Sink to my knees upon the concrete
With the weight for years I bore.

“I wish I could just fly away”,
I say again out loud.
I don’t realize I’m crying
Releasing the pain I found.

“Soar away on the winds,
As easily as they do”
I gesture to the crows above,
“So I can get away from you.”

I look down at my hands now,
For I realize I am bleeding
The pain is just trickling away
And my inner demons are feeding.

I now comprehend my mistake
For that way is so wrong
But this is something I cannot handle
For I am not that strong

I’m in a pool of blood now
As I fall down to the ground
My vision starts to go woozy
My head begins to pound

“I wish I could fly away,”
I whisper my last words
But as I die I’m all alone
So these words remain unheard.

There was a tier in the dark, where everything rode silently below the surface. Where secrets and sorrows never rose for air. In this place, when all light died and the wolves grew old, the crows rode upon their backs.
Crows as black as rotting teeth, they spent the days shrieking in the fields, and at night they gathered in their shadowy roosts, making evil plans and discussing the inevitable fall of mankind. Only there would he come to realize that all men are only as sick as the secrets they harbour.
The crows stank of a different rot. They had been feasting, somewhere, somewhere in the dark and the gloom, in the hidden places, on hidden bodies. They stank and they carried that stink with them. Their eyes had beheld things he dared not imagine, and they gazed upon him with those same little eyes, conspiring with one another in harsh, croaky declarations, as if they really had some awful language of their own. Screaming gibberish.
It was known to all that Christopher Weiher possessed an almost irrational hatred toward all crows. He sometimes wondered if they were now just waiting for him to die.

I got to say these things that were eating away at my soul like the birds,
Birds that happen to look a whole lot like crows,
who only ever go after the dead decaying prays,
because when it's dead, it's easiest to ****** away.

But I spoke line after line like the little white lines that lie in long lines,
on the highways where the dead bodies have been laid out to dry,
I was not going to give into your games let alone cry,
but if I must shed some tears to tell all the fears you have put on me,
then my eye will bleed red,
and never dry out,

And for me to pour my heart out onto you,
is as evil as the crow you are,
while you plot where you're going to pick me apart first when I finish,
but like the crows and the dead carcase I am,
we all have rights,
but like the bandages that can't stick around to fix my wounds,
im sorry,
A thing I've been more often than sometimes,
so its hard to fill in the bubbles of how someone hurts,
when the scales seem to add up in the favor of the other hand.

But that still gives me no right to act and do the things you do,
and play dress up in rooten old skin,
like you have set the example for me,
to lie to those who stared death in the face and went on as before,
but before they were nothing and after there still wasn't something,
and you checked the boxes under the bubbles.
securing they would be fine.

when in reality they were fine like you said,
if you compared their mental status to that of yours.
who let someone roam around like a dead corps.
as the crows above circled and waited,
mocking,
taunting,
waiting for the innocence of an infant to mess up.
so they could finally strike.

I get it's only human nature,
Just like the circle of life,
*But why do people have to keep neglecting children,
until those vultures finally strike.

It’s not over until all the crows
fall from holes opening in the clouds--
sunlight washing cracked concrete white.

I refuse to let your actions fade to static until
the last ca-caw echoes on parkways silent
as the attempted protests of the girls you *****.

I could count five of them by the time I left, yet
none seemed able to open their stitched lips
despite my rallies and strong-worded speeches.

Maybe that’s because you laughed at them, too,
when they threatened to file police reports.
But five years have past since then,

and the rage freezing me from the inside out
has begun to fade, slowly, thawed under
a sun growing steadily more yellow--warm,

my friends always said it would be
if only I would just give it a chance--
all the crows are falling.

There is incessant noise
in the city—as if the blinding light
blocking out the sky was not enough.
They never spread their wings, but oh,
do they spread far and wide; but their songs
are nothing to shake a tail-feather at.
The squabbling and screeching
of fighting roosters, the mimicry
of baby cockatiels finding their voices,
the chattering of gossiping hens,
hawks that stalk the night
only to swoop in screaming
at the first sparrow to cross their paths,
the mourning doves who wake alone
to cry and moan their songs of melancholy.

They remain awake and call out into the night
longer than the old owl in the park.

The ****** of crows bear witness
to the clamor on this night; looking on—
as the Eyes of God—
in disgust and judgment.
These tall, fleshy creatures see fit
to complain of the calls of pigeons and gulls
when their noise is the farthest-reaching plague
that keep all awake at night.

The crows cawed out with harsh, sorrowful cries as we drove up.
I fumbled to pull my phone out of my pocket,
and asked my mom to pull over.
She gave me an odd look,
but did so all the same.

It was a true ****** of crows,
like none you have ever seen in your life.
Black on the gray sky,
they swooped,
each feather a silhouette against the shades.

They sat on street wires,
balanced on wobbly tree branches,
and pecked at the ground.
Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? Three hundred?
Too many to count.

I walked around the sidewalk in awe,
as in waves they would lift from the ground,
soar as one,
before lighting back down,
as if nothing had happened.

The busy cars whirred by on all sides of the small, road-boardered area. What a great welcome to your new home.
Would you have taken it as a bad sign?
Something of that majesty?

A squirrel has the capacity
To reclaim nuts from memory.
But they can't make
Peanut Butter
To smear themselves,
Or their nuts,
Like animals
For ***.

The Bottlenose
Is self-aware,
We noted in
His glassy stare;
When put before
A carnival mirror,
So covex, concave,
Too complex,
We also note
A confusing quiver;
The water's not
What makes him shiver.

Pigs are said to be
As smart as me
When I was three.
Now I'm four.

A chimp can nail
Two boards together,
To make
A cross;
We pray they
Don't redress
Their loss.

Whale song is said
To carry on
Beneath the blue
For 1 00 miles.
Its got a beat.
Do they
Do the ****,
Or slow
Whale dance.

Crows, you know,
Have studied us
For 10 000 years.
They're iconic,
Mythic tricksters
Cawing knowingly
Above our ears.
So much so
For 10 000 years.
10 000 more
Should we rot
So long.

Sun falls, moon rising  .  .  .
Crows splattering throught day,
  .  .  .  Two pieces of night.

I watched some crows this very eve,
Play upon a blustery, early November breeze.
Wave upon wave of those corvid beasts,
Now going west, now going east.
Now rising up, now darting down,
Now racing east,
Now tacking west.
No sailor on the seven seas
Can tack so well as one of these.

Now up, now down
Now left, then down.
One flies north
Another south, then darts east.
Yet flock drifts by despite these feats.
Another joins in synchronous dance
Then up, then down, then back again
Waving together till parting perchance.
Then each alone, up,
Then down, then back again.

Some stall for several ***** and blows,
Remaining still to trees below,
Then a feather's twitch
Banks into the wind

And soar, ...... soar, ..... soar,
Soar away.

Down a ***** only birds can know
Racing faster than the wind
Above the trees below.

*It seems so wasteful, this fighting of the wind,
Futile and vain as a skein does not.
It's not hunting, I think, nor ***,
Except perhaps for showing off.
But I suspect play at play.
Jonathon Seagull's desire, it seems
Infects these playful playing memes.

Perhaps I see play where there is no play,
Projecting wishes onto senses.
But corvids do play, it seems.
Do you too so seem?
Perhaps they even dream.