A Symphony

A symphony is passing overhead--
A murder of crows,
A thing with no rules,
Freed even from gravity,
And rudely they lurk,
Rubbernecking.
Excuse them, they were never taught
Their manners, letters,
Or which fork to use.
Not like that outline of a stealth bomber,
Those geese,
With their landing gear tucked
Neatly beneath,
An angle drawn with a protractor,
With precision,
And such good map readers.
Not like that single monster,
The flock of starlings
Which moves in roiling unison,
With single cells that know,
Before the decision is made,
When to turn.

Still.
It is the crow's ragged voice,
That interrupts the loudest,
Sounding starkly above crowded streets
And the autumn woods alike.