Crows

In the morning, restless crows
watch the dirty city from wires.
Two fall to pick
from a moving trash truck,
and lift back up to perch.
On my way home, hundreds
roll through blue dusk.
They know each other,
pairs, children, clan;
They are borne by spirit,
to home on the horizon
where they will share tales,
while we stumble alone,
in crumpled newsprint,
stuck to the ground.