A crow, high up on the wires,
a knot of night-time
grumbling this last fifteen minutes;
gabbling inside his feathers
obscenity-filled arguments;
a vituperative stream.
Fagots of words issuing fluently,
from the throat behind his horny beak,
a language long hidden beneath the cloak
of feather and pitch;
a communication with the sky
as present and natural as weather.
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