For a slightly differnt, a more real world observation of Crows this poem by Mary Oliver is also one of my favourites… Crows From a single grain they have multiplied. When you look in the eyes of one you have seen them all. At the edges of highways they pick at limp things. They are anything but refined. Or they fly out over the corn like pellets of black fire, like overlords. (Crow is crow, you say. What else is there to say? Drive down any road, take a train or an airplane across the world, leave your old life behind, die and be born again— wherever you arrive they’ll be there first, glossy and rowdy and indistinguishable. The deep muscle of the world

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