When the crows come
something has changed
either the cold
to snap your bones
stone your heart
turn your lips blue
or fear and the want
to shelter from hawks during the day
or owls when the sun roosts
the something could be
carrion at our feet, calling
murder, murder, murder
a row of pin eyes fastened
clearly, deeply as to not forget a face
or, it could just be a lot of birds
with black feathers
found a warm, dry place
Writing 