A Murder in December

No, no one is dead here. But-- a large murder of crows has moved into the trees at my University. Are they moving for winter?

A gear in the fiber of some

uncivilized bodies has kicked in.

 

Above me, dark and stormy beings

bring cacophonic rain

 

that slams --reverberates-- 

into my orbital lobes.

 

They ask me as they flood

the motel trees:

 

why am I so apt to settle

for the bitterly short days ahead?

Author's Note

It was creepy walking home. I can see what inspired Hitchcock.