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 wildly in the mystery
of their one beating heart.

May that all congregants meet in similar murder. Delightedly destroying all that divides until only the divine remains.

Someday. This day.
Slay.

R.