Ghost. Ghost.

Murder of crows sitting amongst the tangle of bare branches

Plump bodies nested like ripe black grapes

One spies me and in direct line of vision

Stretches his neck screaming in a high pitched range,

"Hope! Hope! Hope!"

A second bids me a tilt of the head and a one eyed judgment

In a deep bellied rasp he sighs,

"Ghost. Ghost."

E.A. O'Connell