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.