Roz Kaveney (rozk) wrote,
Roz Kaveney


Much of the time they are a distant bass,
an undernote you almost do not hear
when walking round the park. It becomes clear
that rooks hunt here, regard it as their place,

when you see one perched up on a benchend
and she looks down at pigeons, as they peck
dirt, dung, discarded food. Her stiffened neck
announces scorn. In rainstorms, with a friend

or two, she's there stalking around the grass
while pigeons roost and cower. Her head spikes
into the soil for worms and bugs. She likes
dead pigeons, too, killed by the cars that pass

At dusk she and her sisters will all rise
and stare night down with those black hunting eyes
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