Their voices summon the day
And the day arises

Almost immediately

They will the death of a squirrel
And one sacrifices himself

Under the tire of the next car

They land on a branch in any field
Cry out whatever they please

And own the growing repast
Of the farmers

Who are perhaps wisely elsewhere.

They cry into a snowfall
And the snowfall stops.

They are crows.
They believe what they say.
Their prophecies come true.

Their conquests begin
Whenever I open my eyes

And think
Where are the crows

To speak to me today?