Nihilism and Feathers

First crow to the kill dips his beak in gruesome ink,
Red staining his glossy black plumage.
Looking furtively for unwanted brothers,
Those as bleak in outlook as he.

Second crow sees a feast he should not miss,
Descends with a squawk and a cry of triumph,
No matter that his relation is already there,
Hated rival for that other nest.

First screams a warning between scraps
For the carrion that is his, and his alone.
Survival of his family comes before all else
As an avian godfather of the feathered Mafia.

Second shrieks again his delight,
Over the remains of a Flodden soldier to be seen.
Not for long. Helmet lies fallen from his skull,
Defenceless to the deciders of the air.

First points his crimson quill
Bloodily at the failing sun,
Casting scarlet coats over his body
As he writes the text of his future.

Second races to catch up,
Scribbling his lines “I must not starve”
One hundred times and more,
Long ago master of the school of self.

First scribe works in grim silence,
Not out of respect for the dead.
Flesh is the mammon of such crows,
Their service never less than whole-hearted.

Second is levelling now in speed,
Examiner to the Rue Morgue of the ground,
His beak already blackening with the grim story
Of the city of destruction.

First will not be challenged,
His find his birthright, his alone.
He will have the last moist, red word
Of the book of the man that was.