By Richard H. Fay
A murder wings o’er skeletal trees,
pinions beating hard ‘gainst bitter winds.
Raucous mobs roost along barren boughs
stripped of all but a few frost-crisped leaves.
The gathered horde sings a rowdy song
to disturb this season’s morbid hush.
Then the scoundrels raise a harsher din
and rise into a threatening sky.
Ragged dark specks amongst the flurries
whirl in churning clouds o’er snowy hills.
Flocks search cold fields for man’s poor leavings,
hoping to feast on refuse and death.
(Originally published in Every Day Poets, March 10, 2009.)