Crows and Their Squawking

I think about crows often,
Those little beastly fiends with
Dirty, patched, black coats and
Long, nasty, claws; all bony, like condemning fingers.

And wings outstretched in flight,
Arched garishly like the
Dark-Tattooed arms of
City thugs.

And their squawking.
No, none of that polite songbird chirrup,
Nor hearty country accents of chickens and ducks,
Nor eagles' calls, ringing through mountains.
But boastful, empty, brawling speech,
Of fight and flight
And rotten meat.

But I think,
Somewhere,
Deep inside them,
Behind that beastly,
Thuggish mop of ugly feathers and mud and city dirt,

They remember, of days so long ago,
When the food was plenty and the people better,
When they had once been a kinder, happy race of
Laughing, jolly birds.

I think they cry for what the have become,
(but never in front of us, mind you)
And don't know how to get back.

And maybe they try,
By cawing louder and eating cruder,
To make the world remember them.

Not that we bothered to turn our heads their way.

And maybe, they try,
To sing, like the pretty little birds that chirp about them,
Trying to hum old songs,

But we only hear their squawking, instead.