Look at a crow, and think She.
Harried young woman who swoops past your door,
dark raincoat glistening as she bears the storm.
Weathered old crone with a twinkle in her eye, and her little girl,
eyeing your stall side by side at the market.
The ladies who all sit together, always, on the park bench;
shuffling their coats and sidling ever closer for gossip.
Rich, soulful, throaty cackles.
She, indeed.
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