Poet’s Complaint

A murder of crows is all about me
I cannot think my way through the mutter
Of their wings. They sit
Hunched half in flight amongst the trees
Outside my window. They wing over
My car on every road. My grandfather
Had a crow carved in the top of his cane –
Its eye watched me grow up from between his fat wrinkled knuckles.
It has always been crows for me.
I cannot possibly write today.

Never that creature which the riddle presumed
Is like a writing desk; never omens from the one-eyed god
(Who still search out his guarantee among the slain), never
Night tapping for admittance.
It preens elsewhere, while crows
Blot out all my thought.

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