Death of a Crow

I should prefer they be called a congregation when they come together.
Their gatherings hold all the essence of  worshiping kin flocking together  
to sing and dance and feast.
Loudly croning Jesus and Buddha and Crow  
in a language recognized by the attuned.
 
No, I should listen more intently  
and prefer their rightful name.
A murder of crows.
For in their conclave, the death of crow is imminent, Crow immanent.
One becomes murder.  
As one, they attend.  
They become One,
worshipping death  
and reveling in life.
Wholly. Unbound.  
Rejoicing and mourning wildly in the mystery
of their one beating heart.  
 
May that all congregants meet in such murder. Delightedly destroying all that divides until only the divine remains.
 
Someday. This day.  
Slay.
 
R.