Black as stains, numerous as concert-goers.
The subject of invented horrors, these
As absolute as darkness make their mark,
And preen, and flutter past, and dance on air.
Here they will sleep, a mob of thoughtful shapes
Over the passing people. Here one shakes
His feathers out; two others swing and caw;
Still others hunch there, motionless, severe.
Below, some march about like bent old men,
Socializing, talking and meddling
Sometimes bending to push beaks in the grass.
When night comes, sometimes one makes small complaint
And everywhere their rustling makes space.
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