Black Bird Ode

A large gathering of black birds

In the still bare trees of almost spring,

I heard them from several blocks away.

And as I rounded the bend, I saw them,

All dressed very sharply in black,

Swaying with the branches, 

In the raucous March wind.

It wasn’t a funeral, for it wasn’t a dirge they sang.

More like an ode, praising the glory

Of metallurgy.

And occasionally, they’d utter a screech

That might curdle ones blood,

Like someone pulling someone else’s fingernails 

Down a chalkboard.

But I just shook my head

And kept on my way.

I had the urge to say

That after the winter the world’s had so far,

Even the singing of crows sounds good today.

-jenn