My crows arrange theirselfs in a priest circle with little discussion, maybe some bickering curious & admirable — hundreds of glossy flutters worshipping & waiting patient for the apocalypse so when I forage out in the morning I wave & dance a lively hum melodious & watch my step — don’t want to startle because an honest to god messiah might take revenge & if such a heavenly fling wanders farmwise I want them birds to confess I gave shelter when the world were full of reject and name me their savior, which I am, scattering seed perilously and fluid, amen.