Black crows sit in the trees,
every morning risen
with the sun, the asphalt drizzle,
the incessant hawnking bouncing
and fleshy in pursuit of souls,
or mates in the winter, the summer,
then sitting on the light poles
to remind men over whom they
reside that they are not
the highest nor the lowest form
but merely forms in search of other forms
whose shapes are never certain.