Night of the Murder
A pitch black flock, upon the tree,
lifeless branches, no green to see.
Beady eyes, seeking out.
a shiny beak, a shrieking shout.
Wind picks up, yet not to move,
the fortitued, of nest to proove.
A chorus of caws, from weighted tree,
menacing presence, a stain to see.
Then the murder, taking flight,
on the sky, the darkest night.
Swooping looping, cutting back.
Thunder boom and lightning crack.
The crows are here, and with them bring,
a hellish song, for sky to sing.
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