It was a small dead tree
so the seven or eight crows
seemed like a flock,
stark and black,
on bare branches
against gray sky.
Not a flock – a murder of crows,
as the saying goes.
They looked like an omen
predicting death,
but there were people around.
We couldn’t all die,
or rather, one by one,
we could.
It’s just that the crows
weren’t saying when.
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