The winter crows last evening
-hundreds of them-
whirling in the dusk
above the giant bow and arrow
embedded in the park
along the Embarcadero,
perched in raucous rows
on the Muni Metro powerlines
and in the Canary Island Palms.
Hitchcock was a piker
with his puny flock
compared to this vast cloud
black as the list
that he consigned poor Tippi to
when she dared to resist
his groping hands
and gaping lips
in the back seat of his limo.
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