The Crows are Jealous

A murder of crows,

That's what they're named.

Their sleek night coat,

Of delicate untouched feathers.

Not touched, never been loved.

Soaring through the,

Contrasting sky.

Quite the opposite from them,

Their dark nature.

In themselves, a group,

Called a flock of killers.

Which never particularly,

Not even close,

Reflected well.

Black beaks clash in joy,

Voicing their childness.

Perched on wires,

Pushing their intimidation.

They fly and they fly.

Crows aren't to stop,

Even when stars meet sky.

Crows live in a colourful world,

Lacking such saturation.

As though ink had,

Swallowed them.

Consumed them in forever,

Everlasting darkness.

So a murder of crows,

Watch beautiful birds.

Glaring in jealous,

Black eyes keen.

The crows sleek feathers,

Untouched but now,

Utterly ruffled.

Reviews

[Michael Sun Bear]

I am a lover of crows. For years I have cared for crows, made sure they get adequate calories in winter and at summer’s end when they must quickly grow new feathers after molting. I once had a crow die in my hands. I study crows, love their large and varied vocabulary. That said, I read with enthusiasm any poetry, good or bad, which deals with crows. I found your poem a real delight!

[Webbers]

Well thank you so much!! I'm very happy to hear about the crows being cared for.