My Human Disguise.
My daughter says crows have a special caw
When they want others to come out and play.
She says they are nothing but beak and claw
Stuck to flapping smudges like to black clay.
Tonight they are a thousand cries, raucous
And shrill like legislative caucuses.
When the sun is gone, the crows, like all birds,
Will vanish and become silent as words
Pressed between the pages of a closed book,
As present as a European rook.
They huddle all night in their rookery
And at dawn explode in all directions
To escape each other, make mockery
Of murder. There’ll be no real defections.
