Birds settle, rustle
Feathers and flock from
Window, power line,
Burnt, blasted cedar,
Avenue, retinue, flame rivers, all
That would hold through the terrible rain.

They balk at distress,
Ours – enemies – white
Lies to tell the Red
Cross, the medics few
And far between on distant street corner
Cafés, far beyond walls of iron rain.

The crows cackle out
Loud, what luck must be
To let them see this
Unparalleled feast!
Few, these children of Odin’s wire will,
Understand the tears hidden in this rain.

Birds rustle, bustle
Down through the dead air,
The violent walls
Of war-wielded steel.
Wide eyes of women on men of many
Moments, lives, years, devils, evils, and hopes.

The tears of old men,
Unfelt by nature,
Hunger, steel, signals,
Symbols of timeless
Grief echoes through oblivion, misdirection, weary
Brows, knowing the world’s first Baptist: the rain.

Beaks tear at the flesh
Of the fallen flight,
Rending the ripe rings
Of memory from
The trees of fate.  One bird grasps a metal
Tag from the breast of a fighter, and flies

Away from the walls,
The fear, the café
Corner; five minutes
Of blood, sweat, madness,
And all that is left of the cascade of
Crows is the memory of their passing.