A Massacre of Crows

Down on the north shore
The crows are omniscient
Heavy in the air like ash

tossed up from a pile of paper
All a smolder
A movement posed to break out

From the shop roofs and car tops
They clatter their counsels
And stare

Its the kind of land and air invasion dictators dream of

We are occupied this winter
By mercenaries, who
Give no regard to where they crap
Or whose ordered cans of refuse
They toss about
When backs are turned, their judgements severe

But in the light, they taunt high overhead
lapping against the clouds
Overshadowing thoughts
with their song

Or perched
Thousands of death-dark  gems
Set in evergreen