A Funeral of Crows

A funeral of crows arrived
under February mournful skies,
not all at once, a few at a time,

until all were present. They marched,
waivered back and forth, an acrobat’s
balance on bony branches.

They came to pay their last respects,
feathers scattered, broken neck,
our neighbor’s cat’s memento.

A murder of crows, how appropriate,
a dance of homage as they marched
along the limbs, bobbing gently.

Or did they come for a lesson learned,
seeing is believing under weeping clouds.
Furious wings thrashed morning calm,

withdrawal, their ceremony complete
as the neighbor’s cat lingers
behind a gazed kitchen window.

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