Call A Crow By Its Name

The crows remember my name
and they call me from the woods.
Their beaks are at my neck,
scratching it and flapping their wings
violently for steadiness.
They have to be precise and cold
like a stalker in a field of grass,
like a cat on the prowl.
Their eyes are black and soulless.
Their talons are slick leather.
If I could remember their names,
then I would call upon them,
but they've grown stale on my tongue
and my ears are clogged with cries.
There's a familiar stinging 
just above my brow
where one of them scraped their beak.
I know that they think I'm a predator.
I'm big, without feathers or a beak,
and I lack the strength to fly,
but I want to be accepted into their family.
I want to wear my feathers like a crown
and fly above the trees and growth.
One of them has perched upon my shoulder,
a curious flicker in its eyes,
and it didn't peck me or scratch me.
It simply stood with its wings down
and let out a crow.
Suddenly, I am covered in resting crows,
not a peck or a scratch,
the blood from their attacks drying,
and I am laying in their fields
with eyes to their sky
and I feel that I am flying.