There were crows, who once ruled the earth. They had escaped from the ark of a terrible god,
their beaks seeking the carrion that was borne on the waves of a flood.
They had a taste for blood,
this black sorority of all that is pragmatic,
turning floodwaters into amniotic fluid.
They bored out eyes, opening the view to the unseen, their cries piercing deaf ears.
They were unpickers of the thorax, scissoring through the last fibers of that which binds human to earth.
And then they taught that wily Gilgamesh a lesson that his seed is still struggling to plumb:
floating isn’t flight.