Crows That Speak

The crows learned new words today
and made dictionaries with bits of feather and straw.
The crows learned new words
and came at me telling me lies they couldn’t have told me yesterday,
fluttering at first,
then stuttering on about some new color they’d seen for the first time.
They say their eyes see more than mine.

The scarecrows grew grim-faced and silent,
working out some unspeakable defense of their position,
but, unable to stand against their more verbal enemy,
they collapsed in panic before the multi-syllabic onrush.

The crows learned new words
and even their feathers dance blacker when they attack.
Callousness kept them raucous,
catcalls so caustic they coughed up lead,
cawing at their cowardice.
They wield occam’s razor with ruthless ease,
inflicting unthinkable wounds that fester,
then bleed some new color I can’t see.

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