He believes that all the crows he’s ever seen
belong to the same band of fifty or sixty crows
that have been following him since birth.
He’s given up attempting invisibility; given up
escape attempts; given up using an alias,
dying his hair, dressing like his mother.
None of his obfuscations work. No matter
who he pretends to be or where he tries to go,
wherever he is, the crows are there to watch.
Three of them, muttering ringleaders,
stare down from otherwise silent trees,
waiting for him to make his next move.
dVerse Poets Pub
~ Corvid Poetry ~