the skies are mostly empty. no sparrow, no starling, nothing terribly common arcing under grey, laden clouds. except crows. everyday, the crows.
they are the messengers and the omens in this time of roiling stasis. they are never alone, traveling as they do in families and murders, pulling up the light with their wing beats heading east and drawing down the cloak of deepest grey in the rush to the roost.
they are masters at riding the wind. they command it and play in its vestments.
they portend change and manifestation. they are full potential in the yet-to-be-formed. they adapt, they communicate, they work together. they are the maps to ordinary magic.
for now, i watch.
riding the wind may come.
it is enough to know,
as they tell me,
i am never alone.