Burial of a Crow

I was thinking back to something strange I had seen a while ago, 

I charmingly called what I had seen that day the Burial of a Crow.

A murder of crows were in front of my path in the forest one morning,

It was a strange sight, normally they would be nesting in the trees.

I cautiously approached them, my curiosity guiding my eyes along the path,

In the middle of the gathering, lay a corpse prostrate and motionless. 

No doubt it was one of their own. I had not noticed this detail yet, 

Though many ravens had been gathered, no sound came from the group. 

It was as if they were mourning as you and I mourn the loss of a loved one. 

Those birds understood the bitter kiss that death had given their brother, 

I dared not continue my way along the path, it was as if we agreed to be reverent. 

Days passed and I would look around the area that the body was laid.

No black bird in sight, there were bugs, berries, bushes, and a running stream nearby. 

 I thought that was what animals needed, or wanted, I guess I was wrong. 

I still think about what could have caused the death of that crow. 

It's body was intact, no feathers or hanging limbs, 

Perhaps only a cavity in it's breast could explain it's death,

There are no animals that can kill so precise, so clean.

Perhaps I am wrong about that as I had been wrong about the birds,

Perhaps it was my kind, the clean precise animal that killed that crow.