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Think I figured out how crows talk:
pure black information.
They’re embodied in black,
embedded in its peace which they delight in
marring with their scurrilous cawing.
The speech which passeth understanding
emerges from their craws
as sheer black meaning.
Those signifying crows–
blueblack against snow’s backdrop–
are blues brothers for sure.
They hang around strategic trees,
talking rash trash,
agitating neighbor birds
like the brown-suited conservative sparrows.
Crows seem a mess, with all that fuss–
but-not-unkindly,” as the Sioux say.
To me though, they’re so deeply one
with peace that it’s their joy and job
to ruffle it and fuck it up.