Crows
From a single grain they have multiplied.
When you look inthe eyes of one
you have seen them all.
At the edges of highways
they pick at limp things.
They are anything byt refined.
Or they fly out over the corn
like pellets of black fire,
like overlords.
Crow is crow, you say?
Drive down any road,
take a train or an airplane
across the world, leave
your old life behind,
die and be born again-
wherever you arrive
they’ll be there first,
glossy and rowdy
and indistinguishable.
The deep muscle of the world.
Mary Oliver
helenthorsendances 
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