First just one, then a flock
flapping their crooked wings
before me — darkness sweeping the sky.
I watch as if watching a play unfold, a drama of nature.  
A single crow is mystery, a flock of crows is fear.
Humans can't escape
the past, the consciousness— the crows
flying within me:  witchcraft, prophecy, forbidden awakening.
I sit, limited: I believe what I don't understand,
trust what I don't believe, like a country
built on mistaken foundations constructing a false enemy.
I miss the days of youth, the fence of language
not yet built— only imagining, remembering—
the black crows and white snow opposite but one,
a beauty, a paradox in paradise— to vanish
was to be eternal— I watch now, the crows become fiction,
flying outside me— they're not really there, circling in old silence;
they're not really there, dwelling high on the glassy roofs.