The Crows are mad.
Black, with what way in this world as told by the unhealthy notes of their most metallic song.
As if rung up from the gizzard only, pitched from an ancient and angered earth creature, told to the raising of the wings, then dipped in the deepest of blacks.
It is not your language to speak but there is an understanding of how tone lines voice with character beyond the million gaps species separation.
And this thought is like a bullet let loose in your now as the perennials begin to tell you something also.
About a trust in son.
A cross-slumber.
With their twice-life uncertain season song.
They have given birth to something death.
Below the backyard's alpha tree, who's ethnicity and age you are simply ignorant of, whistles the coiled and chuffing nose of a miniature dog practicing naw with his indoor inbred teeth, along the treated ends of a store-bought and cured bovine femur bone blindly perfecting his eye teeth's angling for some deathmatch straights, his tendered and perfect bred pet neck will never tempt.
And above him, the crows belt their awful cough into the snare and stick of evergreen needles.
Beneath them grinding call, leaves a two-headed babe.
It is dead.
It, breathless in their half-stick, half-city stuffs and birthblood nobled nest.
Its still near-violent, both mouths leaking; breathing liquid from their shared purse, strangled by two tracheas drawing late earth air down to one tendered and off-center lung into quiet.
And you hear nothing but the heavy pur of poem parts in motion during this violent silence in your few ape's audible frequencies.
And above, the crows edge their overnatured child to the lip of their nest and drop it to the human dog.
Black, with what way in this world as told by the unhealthy notes of their most metallic song.
As if rung up from the gizzard only, pitched from an ancient and angered earth creature, told to the raising of the wings, then dipped in the deepest of blacks.
It is not your language to speak but there is an understanding of how tone lines voice with character beyond the million gaps species separation.
And this thought is like a bullet let loose in your now as the perennials begin to tell you something also.
About a trust in son.
A cross-slumber.
With their twice-life uncertain season song.
They have given birth to something death.
Below the backyard's alpha tree, who's ethnicity and age you are simply ignorant of, whistles the coiled and chuffing nose of a miniature dog practicing naw with his indoor inbred teeth, along the treated ends of a store-bought and cured bovine femur bone blindly perfecting his eye teeth's angling for some deathmatch straights, his tendered and perfect bred pet neck will never tempt.
And above him, the crows belt their awful cough into the snare and stick of evergreen needles.
Beneath them grinding call, leaves a two-headed babe.
It is dead.
It, breathless in their half-stick, half-city stuffs and birthblood nobled nest.
Its still near-violent, both mouths leaking; breathing liquid from their shared purse, strangled by two tracheas drawing late earth air down to one tendered and off-center lung into quiet.
And you hear nothing but the heavy pur of poem parts in motion during this violent silence in your few ape's audible frequencies.
And above, the crows edge their overnatured child to the lip of their nest and drop it to the human dog.