no more, Mr Jones

I sit here counting crows
scavenging through the grass
outside my window, but every one
reminds me of you.
Their feathers are oiled and dark,
so they might look sleek.  
They spread and ruffle with
extraneous pride,
eager to look larger than the
limits of their form.
The incessant call of their caws
seek to keep me from
forgetting their existence.  
Glorious in the certitude
of their superiority,
they cry on,
and i keep watching,
desperate to see mere birds.