The Crows

The black birds

The death birds

Talk too much

Talk in tongues

And tones

And rhymes

And in riddles

Tell jokes

Keep secrets

They know your secrets

Secret messages, signs, if only you could understand them, decipher them, hear them.

They are very noisy, squawking loudly from telephone lines, and tree tops, signboards and rubbish dumps.

They hip and hop and dance and flap their wings, as if waving at you, calling you, trying to get your attention.

They just want your attention.

Listen to me. Speak to me. See me. See what I see.

Observers, standing on the edge, peering down from above, gesticulating, gesturing, trying to get your attention.

They do not hang around dead things because they are hungry, waiting for leftovers, or easy pickings, pecking out eyes and tongues, they are not vultures. No, crows are found where the dead are because crows are gargoyles for graveyards, protectors of the underworld and gateways to the other side.

Playfully, they pretend to be scary, dressed all in black, from beak to claw, their pretense is their horror, the perception of fear, of darkness of decay, but they are deceivers.

Deception is the crow’s strength and her biggest joke. She both obscures and reveals, cloaked in a curtain of smoke.

Do not be deceived by the crow for she may be ugly but she knows.

The eternal trickster, the crow is a ventriloquist who knows what to say, how and when.

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