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We see death when we see crows.

Lola Stansbury-Jones

And so the murder gathers,
with the break of dawn’s light.
I wake with the crows,
little winged messengers
with coats as black as spilt ink.
With what news do they greet me?
That the agony of life is
in itself
our only promise.

The disturbance of my unconscious
leaves me reeling,
staring into space
for hours afterward.

We see death when we see crows.
We see that which forewarns the all-dreaded fate;
a sleepless dream
where morning never comes.

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