Crows

The crows are relentless in their silence…
Their atoms stilled by the long-dead frost.
They group, huddled on bare branches
Barely breathing. As black notes, they
Stand stark against this weighted, patient sky.

The ground yields no food. Forage they might 
In bins and doorsills, for random scraps of crust and fat.
This winter makes scavengers of us all…
But within this murder is a camaraderie
As father talks to son, mother to daughter.

For this is no flock, but family.
Each individual, in every degree, as you and I.
In this daily roost, I perceive something
Of the irony of us ⎯ and from them take
This patient task of waiting, with neither

Pity nor blame. For if today is his last
Each must accept his fate. Only collectively
Will each survive. Only together can they complete
The purpose of being crows….

Giles Sutherland
Wroclaw 
March 2014