EACH CROW CALL In the thicket of thoughts, where shadows roost, Birds of silence take ominous flight. Each wingbeat heavy with the unsaid, Each crow call, a cry in the muted night. Upon the brow of the brooding man, A nest of turmoil, twigs of strife, His voice, a ghost in the labyrinth mind, Where stoic branches twist with life. Not a chirp nor a warble to break the dawn, Just a tangle of black against the grey, Where whispers of help are swallowed whole, In the prideful games that…