Where the crows gather

Beneath a sky bruised purple by the dying sun, they gather, a tide of inky wings unfurled. No caws announce them, only silence spun from watchful eyes that pierce the fading world.

On barren branches, silhouettes they cling, A morbid chorus perched on gallows bare. No song escapes them, just a ravenous thing That stirs within their feathers, cold and stare.

A feast they sense, a promise in the air, of something fallen, silent, and unknown. The crows descend, a truth beyond compare, Black harbingers where life has ceased to groan.

The wind sighs, whispers secrets through the trees, A chilling pact between the crows and night, as darkness claims its due on bended knees, and they consume the hush with grim delight.