The Crows

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They mourn and circle with respect.  Surround

a fellow-creature with a walk of love

until the fading light’s no longer found.

Oh, whisper, he is gone someplace above.

They wear dark suits to usher in that day

funereal.  They mutter in their gloom;

their sorrowed souls form, looking for a way

to understand why life is ended soon.

Now, sad they circle round.  Their friend is gone:

“Oh, never come again”, companions weep.

“Protect him since he’ll never see the sun.

Oh, circle him with love before he sleeps!”

These winged creatures know when life has flown.

All kindred feathers close upon their own.