Crows, by Britta Benson

Photo by Tom Swinnen on

Ten of you sit like dark angels in the rowan tree’s crown.
The other lot moves in. Troublemakers. Family?
Council estate drama in three deafening scenes.
One: Territorial screeching from both sides. 
Two: Rooftop strutting, forward, squeal, backward, squawk.
Three: Last dance. Last chance. Hissing death eaters own the air.
I blink. You’re all gone. Who won?

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