crows

their legs are slashes
of japanese ink,
the sky an ashen sheet
upon which they inscribe
a language out of feathers
and air,
motion and emptiness.

voices that kill
snap against twigs,
rub raw the wind.

wingtips rip the sky’s grey tissue:
to create by destroying,
to gnash against the void,
then to fly in.

when i enter my apartment weeping,
i will tell my roommate
there has been a murder

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© 2014 nessa jasper