Two Crows Copyright © 2009 Rob Lock

Kings of the silver birches we called them,
first time we saw their fighter formations
zoom down in pursuit of our pesky cat.

We assumed he’d been threatening their young,
admired the way they wove into, out of
attack with black brazening bills, the flak

of abuse hurled in pursuit of a quarry;
the way that they sent him bolting indoors. 
Later a tom two gardens away.

The following day they were out on patrol
over the gulley between our fence
and Riverwalk School, and we were less sure.

Protecting their own?  We’d seen no fledglings
but felt for ourselves the control
they maintained from the top of their tree:

all the neighbourhood cats now curfewed,
answering calls of nature only at night.
This twelve garden patch sewn up tight. 

Now we, like the cat, were watching
the windows, becoming ourselves vigilantes.
There was shouting, shaking of fists. 

We scavenged for stones, wanting revenge
for this loss of face, rabbits on roads,
sheep on hills, all with eyes plucked, flesh picked.

Then out of the blue, they went.  They must
have had young, learning to fly, now seeking
the gore that is theirs.  The stones lie unused. 

Cold winds will soon enough blow
through feathers, words, all manner of bones.