crows calling

 

Ornate railings make shadows on the walls, while black birds hover over the townspeople. Crows, are pecking prophecies. The dark air is cut by hundreds of  hands reaching, swooping. Echoing silence stands still, encompasses.

The birds dive into the crowd to peck and agitate two or three. Their tails touch  those hands to deliver a verdict.  Their fluttering wings whisper foreshadow  in the ears of those who will make eyes water.

 On this night, the defendants’ unconcious will pour out completely. Makeshift bodies, inside wooden rectangles, will be buried under direct perceptions of truth.

The birds wipe away facial expressions,  stick pencils into deep crevices, and explore empty caves.

 Objects dash in all directions, but have no where to go.

They set hair on fire, and change its color until lips are barely there.

They take away  burdens of great multitudes and fill hollow spaces.

They sacrafice the ones loved.

 Instinctively, souls are flown away to nests and eyes that once perceived a fleeting, dull light are closed forever.

 Then the crows line up like jurors back from deliberation.  And with beady eyes and cocking heads, they fly up and hover once again.

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