Crows

Seen as some sort of twisted demon
Some monstrosity of incalculable evil
Bringers of death

They cannot sing the way others can
Throaty cracks caked in a croak
Echo through the trees

Flying effortlessly
A blur of black against a sea of blue
Soaring through the air

Their memory bounds past those
Beautiful
Delicate
Singers

Remembering faces
Those who have done them wrong
Those who have done them right

A society named a murder
With rules
And throaty croaks that have meaning

They are mourners of death
Calling out to others
To respect their fallen

Bringers of death
Twisted demons
Of incalculable evil
Loyal
Intelligent
Marvelous
Fighters
Protectors