Kym Taylor | Critical Crows

Those dark and morbid corvids on my lawn—

Sharp claws. Sharper caws. Sheer cacophony.

Unlike the sparrows singing in the dawn

Murderous sounds of stereophony.

I’ve heard that they can recognize my face

With memory behind their inky eyes.

A sideways gaze like I am in their space,

Staring black truth through my little white lies.

But what have I to fear? I feel no shame!

Is it some dread this shady crowd intends?

Return the gaze, I think. Just play the game.

My rook to your night. Checkmate, feathered friends!


Then still the stony stare. Just let me be!

Is this some avian conspiracy?


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