Above my head a murder of crows;
Blackest eyes, wings unfurled,
Dip and wheel and fret the
With raucous cries, their talons curled.
My mind is chill my form is still,
On omens thoughts now tarry;
Of all the souls of the dead
These dark-clad avians carry.
What end shall ghostly travelers meet?
Bonny fair wood or heated press?
Only the crows are privy thus,
And we mere men shall never guess.
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