Symposium
March 6 2024
I can see why murder.
How the bird, all midnight black
with just its beady eyes showing
resembles an executioner.
And how they mass, cawing avidly
like a vengeful mob.
I once befriended a crow.
He came daily for food,
entertained me with his antics.
And perched on the railing
we would stand face to face;
his penetrating gaze
scrutinizing me
as if I amused him,
the deep intelligence
so plain to see
blazing out of those small black eyes.
I say him, not it
because he was clearly sentient;
a personality
with a sense of humour
who delighted in mischievous fun.
In fact, I soon began to wonder
just who had trained whom;
the food I offered
like clockwork
he’d come to expect.
Would the world be better
if crows were in charge?
If, like us, they had language and hands
and had risen to dominance?
A symposium of crows
looking down from the trees,
observing amusedly
as the lesser species
went about their daily business
oblivious to their overlords.
The other birds
grubbing for worms.
Herd animals
contentedly grazing.
Dogs mating
and sniffing behinds,
snails trailing slime.
And the naked apes
fighting among themselves.
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