Crows gather, dotting the low branches
of leafy trees, sheltering themselves
from inquisitive eyes, calling out
to each other with harsh voices
in an overlapping rondeau of caws.
 
Their guttural cries are deafening.
What are they saying to one another?
One voice calls out above the din.
It is a different call that brings
the murder to momentary silence,
a pause in the rowdy discourse.
 
Then the unruly noise begins again.
The solitary voice calls out once more
and order is restored at last.
What exactly did he say to them?
Could he share just that one secret?
 
The raucous sounds, the disharmony
of corvine voices, slowly lessens.
From the forest understory, the crows,
hidden except for the sound of their voices,
slip away one by one on sleek ebony wings.
 
Taking flight, leaving their staging ground,
they move on to join their kindred
in their ancient communal roost,
carrying their secret language with them.


© by Carroll S. Taylor.
Used here with the author’s permission.