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.