Circling in a midnight sky,
In arching movements crows do fly,
Screeching, soaring: ugly sound,
Then plummet, dive towards the ground.
An angry swarm like angry bees,
Hurtling in and out of trees,
Bullets of feathers and glinting eyes,
Making a racket as the sunset dies.
Make a ring of dark feathers,
The ground below: deflowered heathers,
The crows are angered on this night,
They'll crow and scream until it's light.
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