I saw a murder of crows
mob a raven today
and thought of you,
my cousins after cousins
across the seven continents.

For an eyebrow raised,
a pause too long in answering,
misunderstandings festered
from a thousand years ago
descending and pecking out our eyes.

Whose son are you? And
what did your father do?
Mine left me a message
you wouldn’t understand, so
fuck you.

They attacked, black robed,
assassins in the sky.
The raven, heavier, dropped,
spun out, lumbered, skull-sore, away
to plot revenge, perhaps an egg or two.

The crows flapped on and sang
as crows will do, their shoulders
thick with pride and eyes with scorn.
Until the next time comes
you fool.

Will Kirkland
June 2013
After a wilderness trip