A Murder of Crows (In Memoriam for Jon Bentley) Black crows were still laughing as I arose this mourning. Two days ago you chose to wake no more. The crows' mad cackle raised my hackles; the shrill sound of shackles shaken free, your black crows gathered in my tree. —Patrick Houlihan Muse on Void Poetry is a poor man wondering aloud what his life is worth in galactic terms— a nickel for the red dwarf, a quarter for the quasar, no coin worthy of the stellar black hole... —Patrick Houlihan |