Thick, low clouds press down,
Smothering in their oppressive silence
A murder of crows flies near,
Their raucous caws fill the air with doom
Trees and grasses barren and dull,
prepared for winter's offerings
A bluebird wings past,
its sapphire brilliance dispels the gloom
Another flashes by, following the first
Always a harbinger of hope.
And have you ever wondered why it's called a MURDER of crows? Not a flock, not a gaggle, not a brood, or a flight, but a murder.
The interesting thing about this poem happened about three minutes after the murder of crows caught my attention. I received a text that my father-in-law was in the hospital.
Coincidence . . . or not?
Your call.
