Oh, No … Crows
by Priscilla Turner Spada

Edgar Allen Crow, someone said–
a neighbor, in a starless, pre-dawn hour–
after being woken up from bed
by a clutch of crows endowed with the power
to resurrect, with raucous calls, the dead.
They clatter and instill a sense of dread.

Their black shapes loom on every brittle bower.
In ragged feathers, they clack and hunch and glower,
then burst up like fireworks and fly,
spreading their inky wings across the sky.

But perhaps their dance is innocent;
we're reading too much into what they meant.
When they cast their shadows on our doors,
maybe they're just looking for Lenore!



 

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