Hat-tip to bioephemera for bringing my attention to this poem, "On Divination by Birds."
It put me in mind of the colossal murders of crows that in autumn in Orange City, Iowa, where I went to college, would fill some great naked tree or two and bellow, squawk, whir, and warble in the dusk, there hundreds of voices audible blocks away. They were an ominous elevated mass beyond the yellow glow of the street lamp. They would die down into croaky murmurs and the random flutters of agitated individuals given time. But if you got too close, their calls and movements increased in volume, and some or most might take flight cacophonously, and circle once or twice like a mass of little hearses all wailing their horns, before they'd settle again to quaver some more in the tree. You would swear you could hear them breath and talking amongst themselves.
On Divination by Birds
I don't need that black
wind of crows kicking up from flax to tell
heavy weather coming, white
days to drop
barricades across the interstate,
against two hundred miles of trackless white.
(The crows so obvious then
against the miles
of trackless white!) More tricky the magpies
flicker and croak at the sunken carcass
of a roadkill deer, raveling with
beaks
the rubbery guts, picking gravel
from scant meat: there must be in their turn-taking
some pattern, some
elegant design
beyond need, something in the raw trouble
of jays, the ragged braying geese flown south.
I gaze at their weightless wingbeats daylong
working to discern whether V
might stand
for valediction, or vigilance, or
the blank indifference of velocity.
- poem by Kimberley Johnson, A
Metaphorical God; via Verse Daily
- photo by Chad Johnson, constellation & crows