awry

Three crooked crows landed in a crooked tree.
Conspiratorial; or perhaps just
being crows.
Carbon black cutouts in an undulating grey,
darkening and otherwise featureless sky
the middle one chortled or purred,
cackling and plotting carefully.

The first craned its neck backwards
critically calculating my value.
Two disparaging caws,
and consensus was met.
Darkness, motion blurred their silhouettes;
three crooked crows left the crooked tree.

It was no less crooked without them.