The vena cavae of the city, a murder of crows—
crossing to all the dumpsters, a roving,
unkind black-blood pumping.
You could follow its branching extensions,
cycle through alleys where
vagrants lean, still, like the hair
on the back of the city’s neck.
Crows tilt on wires, crying,
pick at chicken bones, then
rise to rejoin the always
passing murder, always
black on every horizon.
This is a crow city—
lurks behind stone-walls, the
heart of the city might be a landfill, where
black shadows descend on their
The air is never empty of
sable wings, scattering.
Starlings will hunt the currents,
will “mainline” the hidden
paths of the air, and all
together, but when you find
a murder of crows, they move
by their inner volitions, every
individual set of wings, setting a
This is a crow city.
This is not a metaphor.