From below I confuse the crows

With plastic bags carried up by the wind and

Tangled in the telephone  wires that

Spider web out from the pole.

The confluence of the wires makes a platform, a perch

From which I imagine they use unique organs in their feet

To read the technical birdsong babble passing through each cable;

This one the screechy cacophony of a seasons worth of

Game of Thrones downloaded via a Russian site,

That one the humdrum plainsong of another Windows update.

Did the crows detect the upsurge in babble that

Warmed their feet on the magipes tidings as

Parliament dissolved and the rooks and owls

Returned to their nests to defend their territory?

The thought made no more sense than the mistaken view that

Crows were discarded bags, or that they wished for anything more than

Fresh carrion, a safe perch and fair weather.


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