Crows and other successors

The crows land gently,
almost respectfully. 

 

The sky is black.
Word, evidently, is out:

 

“Come to the cities. 
Come and see. 
Come and feast
on nature’s bounty.”

 

Birds hop and shimmy
between the clustered figures,
searching out the easy pickings. 

 

Eyes glazed and
gazing skyward
offers the most accessible
of low-hanging fruit.

 

They perch on brows,

flapping, skittering, jabbing,

always watching, listening.

 

Brick and concrete neighbourhoods
echo with pathetic howls,
frantic, now dejected, barking.

Household pets, trapped alone
or lodged with owners, now defunct.

 

God alone knows what lies
behind those doors.
No one else will ever see.

 

Zephyrs of black wings,
like swirling autumn leaves,
betray the site of snarling fights. 

 

Faithful servants pay the price
of continued loyalty,
torn apart by curs whose story
never justified such sentiment.

 

For the artful rat,
business thrives as usual. 

It’s too soon for him to venture
from the cover of his run. 

 

Only when the peristaltic flow
of detritus fails and is succeeded
by a new and temporary glut
will he gorge on the valedictory gift
from his partner of millennia past.

 

It’s still premature,
with bluebottles settling,
to speculate the new world order. 

 

Opportune, merely,
to mark the passing of the last.