muscle of the world

Standard

Crows
by Mary Oliver

From a single
grain they have
multiplied.
When you look
in the eyes of
one
you have seen
them all.

At the edges of
highways
they pick at limp
things.
They are
anything but
refined.

Or they fly out
over corn
like pellets of
black fire,
like overlords.

Crow is crow,
you say.
What else is
there to say?
Drive down any
road,

take a train or
an airplane
across the
world, leave
your old life
behind,

die and be born
again~
wherever you
arrive
they’ll be there
first,

glossy and
rowdy
and
indistinguishable.
The deep
muscle of the
world.

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