Seventeen Crows

Seventeen crows.

Six on the old gray car,

Ten on the eves of the gray shuttered house,

One on the cracked light above the door.

 

Is someone dead inside?

 

Waves crash beyond a line of sea scrub.

The windows hide behind lowered shutters.

The door hides behind an overgrown shrub.

 

Is someone dead inside?

 

No crows on me,

I hope.

 

Tourists walk by,

Drive by.

Bike by.

No one really looks at the cracked gray paint

On an ugly gray house

With seventeen crows.

 

Is someone dead inside?

 

Is there a body, undiscovered, lying on the kitchen floor?

Unseen and pre-buried in a wooden gray shroud?

 

Is someone dead inside?

 

No ravens on me.

No ravens on you,

I hope.

 

Open your shutters.

Clear the door.

Cut the shrubs.

Keep up the paint.

Keep the ravens away.

Never be the house with someone dead inside.

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