Always The Crows
And then
There’s always the crows.
A black and shiny sadness that descends upon this world
Every morning.
A comforting darkness.
I can hear them when I open my windows.
Somehow their calls seem louder when the skies are grey.
They greet me when I go on my morning run,
Tossing walnuts into the street so cars can crack them open.
Resourceful birds.
Their voices are not beautiful, but honest.
Crows don’t sugarcoat.
Harbingers of mortality
Travelers between worlds
Crossing from this realm into the next
Deep down and high above
When everything else is gone
There will always be the crows
The mighty silent hush of their wings
Their snarky commentary on this world
Their utter blackness
And a few scattered walnuts
For them to feast on
After we are gone.
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