Sometimes I like to close my eyes,
listen to the busyness of crows.
They speak in urgent tones.
I don’t know why.
At night a murder of them
try to stay quiet but the urgency remains
in groanings and sour hushes, beaks tight.
I listen when I can, you see crows are like us,
urgently mad yet hiding from night to night.
I can’t dance. I would if I could beneath the crows
just to say to them I’m like you but I cannot fly.
Someday I will.