CROWS

CROWS

The internet said en masse they’re called a murder.
I’m murdering time, on the bench on the
common, sat clocking the crows
bossing the green, on the
grass and in the trees,
keeping the parakeets
in check.

They move like a squadron, pepper-
potting across the common,
communicating in crow
speak, speaking about
me perhaps.

The internet said they recognise faces. I
wonder if they notice I’ve been
reading this book for the
last six weeks.

Yesterday I experimented, got in amongst them on the grass
with a bag of BBQ Hula Hoops. Within a few carefully
executed movements, they surrounded me. I got
scared and did that half-fast-walk, half-
run like I’m trying to clench my bum
cheeks under pressure whilst
rushing to catch a bus.

This morning I heard them in the tree outside my house, going
mental like pillheads in them nineties warehouse raves,
blowing on them plastic horns.
On the internet I’d read about these so-called crow courts and I
wondered if that’s what all the noise was,
when the noise just
stopped.

It suddenly occurred to me that the murder might have
murdered and what had that poor crow
done to deserve it?

Sat on the bench again and I’m watching them watching
me. I think they know that I’ve been reading about
them on the internet, though maybe they
don’t know that I’m no
threat, I’m just curious,
unemployed and
bored of
humans.

(c) Paul Cree 2023