The Murder of Crows by Scott T Hutchinson

Ever since a Brother and Sister got themselves hung

with wind-twisting twine, spiraling at the ends of a cross

baking in the sunburnt cornfield—we’ve gathered even further back

at the far edges, the tree line of reason and shadowed boundary.

None of the Crows have ever given a grackle about the stuffed-head figures

randomly appearing in bucolic fields and quaint vegetable gardens,

lopsided effigies of the silly but dangerous provider and enemy.

Those childish ground-walkers call our gathering a murder. But this newest

scarecrow forecasts increase, in murder most foul. The flightless two-legs

congregate on their front porches, sipping fire water—laughing

at how We crows have massed for a black-winged funeral. 

If the Disrespectful knew crow-speak--they would learn

that their names are scratched in the book of predators

we will ultimately devour. This is known

and widely shared, inarguable observations from on high.

Reckonings are inevitable, like desperate squirrels

roundly stopped in their zig-zaggy tracks.

There is a dead coyote six hard-paths away,

edible still. A bounty of thin green-skins has been opened,

lies seven hard-paths on, beside the red box with the stone bath

stagnating behind it. The lost and fallen hunter camouflaged

down in the ravine waits for discovery. Remember always:

no complaining. That is not Our wary and thankful way. 

Three brethren hopping in a dead and restful maple tree—they found

a barred owl at the creek’s spring-head, giving him chortle-scolds

and chase for the afternoon, teaching him to respect his betters.

they let him be when the two-legs once again brought out into the light,

gripped in their risk-taking hands, a creation of metal-earth and wood--

the stick thing that crucified the others from an outlier distance. 

Sighted, recognizing their intent--it is not the way to wait

for further thunder. See it, take circular flight. Their time will come.

There’s a tray of black oil sunflower seed two hills over; follow the chickadees,

sniff-taste the cardinal and blue jay visitation, finding such plenty—

like hunger—never ceases. Don’t understand what those two brothers missed

in our accumulated wisdoms, but nothing will disturb them now. We are patient.

We do not mourn. We will gather back on the edges. This is our storytelling. 

Scott T. Hutchison's work has appeared in Vestal Review, Mobius, The Raven Review, and Heroic Fantasy Quarterly. New work is forthcoming in Bull, Bristol Noir, Atlanta Review, and The Thieving Magpie.