Time of the Crow

Along the river,
at the time of pale-blue,
the crows flow like black curtains,
thousands of them,
tens of thousands,
enumerable and warm and beating.
Just by looking at their wings
I can feel the soft mist,
the growing west wind,
and I can hear the traffic growing dimmer beneath me.
We course through, and over,
we, the relics of ancient days,
we roost together in furled winter branches,
and watch the humans walk by
with their eyes turned down.