On a cool Autumn day, a murder of crows
Is gathered in a courtyard.
Ignoring the passers-by, I sprint and chase them,
Knowing full well I won't catch them.
I just want to see the black mass scatter
And hear the beating of a hundred wings
And the low caw of half as many voices
Beneath the vault of clear blue sky.
How do the passers-by perceive me?
I wonder amidst my joy.
As if I were a lunatic, perhaps.
But, I think, there is nothing crazy about this.
I am the chaser-away of bad omens,
Confronting evil head-on.
Let the others scoff.
They will look out their window later today,
And there will be the crows,
And anxiety will tear at their hypocritical minds.
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