Storm Crow descending, winter unending. Storm Crow departing, summer is starting.
The old crow, dark and haunting, circles outside; its cruel caw on the wind, its wings spread wide. Clouds at its tail and sun at its beak, it carries grey sky over like a nightshade sheet. Over head omens, a storm is coming you sense as tree branches, barren and plain, shake in the bird’s presence. One black bird, one old crow, soon others will join, more will come you know. The whipping wind whisk you away, indoors as they descend. A murder made of feathers both smooth as silk and black as the night road’s bend. Their cackling calls brag as the sun flees through the pines; you look on worried, knowing that the storm is coming, that there’s darkness down the line. The lighting flash, the thunder claps, the raven taps, and the storm breaks.