Counting Crows Poem Novels & Stories

"I'll get it checked out. Don't panic." The moment I ended the link with Celeste, I immediately opened another one to Liam. "Call the border patrol. Get a report from all stations. Now." "On it," Liam responded without question. While I waited for Liam to report back, I kept my expression neutral, still pretending to watch the ceremony. But my eyes were scanning the crowd, looking for anything out of place, any sign of the danger Celeste had sensed. That's when I noticed them. Crows. Dozens of them, maybe even hundreds, circling above our gathering in a formation that was definitely not natural. They moved like a living cloud, their black wings blotting out patches of stars.

I had to assume he was answering my question by reciting his poem, but I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, so I only stared at him, dumbfounded, until he lowered his book and arched an eyebrow at me. “The Raven?” he said. “Edgar Allan Poe?” “Right,” I said, recognizing the first line of the famous poem now. It seemed fitting. Big, black, ugly, mean bird. Not that our Raven was any of those things. I should’ve thought of it myself. Brice went back to his book, and I wondered if there were any ominous, dark poems written about flamingos. I doubted there were, but perhaps there should be.

A little too well-timed to have come from the sky. Grace Marks had said the morning clouds looked like angels hanging their laundry. And by then I was feeling a little like Grace Marks myself, because what woman on this good earth had ever gone madder? The rain was a little like they were marching. Carrying a coffin in a funeral parade. And I didn’t have the thought that it was my coffin until a dark crow landed to preen on the hood of Damon’s car. A good omen. Except a stout magpie landed by its side. Because father used to sing to me: one for sorrow, two for mirth. Three for a funeral, four for a birth. And this perfect pair of life and death opened their beaks in the spots of clear glass

after everything I went through, still just insults I did my study on those creatures for years, and I can still remember some of my favourite poetry and poems I read as a kid A Last Word by Ernest Dowson Let us go hence: the night is now at hand; The day is overworn, the birds all flown; And we have reaped the crops the gods have sown; Despair and death; deep darkness o'er the land, Broods like an owl; we cannot understand Laughter or tears, for we have only known Surpassing vanity: vain things alone Have driven our perverse and aimless band. Let us go hence, somewhither strange and cold, To Hollow Lands where just men and unjust Find end of labour, where's rest for the old, Freedom to all

Bianca woke up as a Queen and no wild flying bird objected to her reign. As the crows soared through the moonlit sky, their numbers began to multiply. One by one, more joined the flock, their glossy black feathers glistening in the pale light. The flapping of their wings echoed in the stillness of the night as they came together, united by their shared mission. With each passing moment, the flock grew larger, like an unstoppable force gathering strength. The crows cawed with determination, their voices echoing through the dense forest. They flew through the trees, their wings beating in perfect harmony, their beady eyes focused on the goal ahead.

Penny trembled as she opened her mouth slightly and read Darryl’s poem. “Over old trees wreathed with ancient vines and flying evening crows. “Under a small bridge at a nearby cottage, a stream flows. “On an ancient road in the west wind, a lean horse goes. “Westward the setting sun goes. “Far from home was the heartbroken one!” Westward the setting sun goes. Far from home was the heartbroken one! The entire city rumbled in cheers in the blink of an eye. It was a great poem! There was nothing like it!

No one was! My crows finally come in my vision, circling around above. My lips turn into a nasty smile as their eyes turn red. "Go." I whispered, snapping my head back to the clearing. They let out a caw as they flew towards the clearing. I chant louder as I walk forward. As soon as the crows near the clearing, they began to drop dead one after the other. Furious and beyond enraged, I chant louder, cursing the damn witch who continues to mock me even in death.

Looking up, the sky was not only dark because of the clouds but also the rattles and chirping of the crows was deafening… "What the hell is going on?" The crowd began screaming, especially women, when the black crows that were chirping, started falling down like rain…Creating an uncomfortable smell as they fell dead…

"Welcome to hell with moss." The group began trekking toward the Winding River, boots crunching over brittle pine needles. The air was thick with fog, and eerie caws echoed from somewhere overhead. Falcon gasped. "Did you hear that? That bird just cursed at me in Ravenese." "That's a crow," DJ said flatly. "No, DJ, that was a death omen. That crow said, 'turn back, bitch,' and I, for one, think we should respect its wishes."

Big heavy chains. Suddenly, people started to come out from everywhere, the place which was, only a few moments ago, abandoned and quiet, began to pool out people with skull like masks shielding their faces from the eyes of any other, cladded in large hooded cloaks too heavy it bent and twisted their skinny frames, Arms stretched - diseased. The sounds of the chains getting heavier. The cry of the wolves becoming louder. Someone whispered a name. She stood rooted to a spot in shock, unable to move or turn, the sound dropped on her neck, cold to the feel, like an awakening call, soft yet so heavy.