The gang of six is back
swaggering and strutting
in their black coats
in the cul-de-sac.

Protesting and cawing
in strident tones
patrolling the borders
pecking over the stones.
Plants are tossed
and soil is hurled
jumping and screeching
hopping mad at the world.

Dive bombing the dog
baiting the cat
killing young birds
is where they’re at.
Destruction their motto
slaying their crime
birdsongs have gone
the gang’s in its prime.

On their own they stand back
and hesitate to strike
but when they assemble
the gang is warlike.

They puff up their feathers
they squeal and they squawk
they boast, brag and bully—
seek a victim to stalk.

A small bird selected
they peck and they glare—
its poor body lifeless
the gang doesn’t care.

They don’t eat the corpse
not hungry I suppose.
They just like to kill—
this murder of crows.