A Murder of Crows

Something about the moon that night
stole the thoughts from my head
and filled me with unceasing dread. 

It called to me with a ravenous voice,
its silver shadow crossing my face, 
and drew me out into a place
where cars lay parked in gleaming rows,
like coffins covered by falling snow.

Three crows on a pole whistled and screeched.
It seemed they were calling to me. 
I raised my head and looked up at the sky. 
The moon had grown and was reaching for me
with silver hands and a gaping maw.

While the cacophony rang across the lot,
I ran and ran to the thud of my heart. 
At last, when the noise had gone,
I sat on a bench in the midst of the snow
and watched a man across the way,
a man in clothes of gray.

When he turned, I saw he carried a scythe.
I cried out and fell on my knees
and grasped at his feet. 
“Death!” I cried. “Death I’ve seen! I’ve seen — “

At that moment I woke in my bed.
And the moon’s waxing shadow
fell on my head.