...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UqLF-_9pjnY

I see them in the trees,

Scattered pepper within the thicket 

And spattering laughter when the overcast is thickest.


I hear them overhead,

Marking segues along the power lines

And shifting shoulders in pantomime as they watch you walking by.


I feel them on the wind,

Dancing cartwheels along the breeze

As if to demonstrate the ease in which a pair of black wings have set them free.


I can smell them in the rain,

Hovering close to catch a quiet word

And relay it to the master, as all ravens remain indentured as Grimnir does to his birds.


I can taste their sense of dread,

As if their claws carry the foreboding 

And their throats echo the sentiment, dropping bombs in the form of crow calls while smoking a quiet moment.


They have a presence,

These murders of coal-dust crows,

With their feather-coats all carved from jet

And their shadows captured by a silhouette.

They have a sentiment,

As the skyline does the picturesque, 

Encapsulating the Nightingale without the glorification of an aigrette

And postulating the venereal as a dark array of blackened statuettes.  

Author's Note

Again, playing with meter and format - not sure if you've noticed but I have a thing for slightly off rhythm, staircase stanzas.