The sky turns black with countless
crows,
and I suppose
our local woods
now pool their broods.
How many murders lurk in there?
And who would dare
to walk beneath
what they bequeath?
Their caw-caw squabbles last all night
till grey goose light.
With dawn's rich crack
the sky turns black . . .
1st Place Minute Award - National Federation of State Poetry Societies
Annual Competition (2004)
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