All the crows lay dead
in the playground.

a place for playing, now

a place for slaying

Feathers drenched in crowsweat
hung from the swing in the charring heat

Heavy beaks dragging swarthy carcasses
had avalanched to the bottom of the slide and lay in the dust

Broken black wings drooped in distorted irony from
the flying fox

The crows were self-slain
Breathed their last in the poison sky, let go
Gave up their ghosts
and became torpid torpedos

By curious coincidence
they landed;
in the playground:

a place for laughter

a place for slaughter

a place for children's innocent breath

a place for a murder's violent death.