Crows Don't Like Being Photographed (Poetry)

They're up there on the roof again,
black carvings still as bookends,
identical beaks facing out,
their sharp silhouettes
contained in a moment,
poised against the blue.

The focus finds them,
the shot composed,
but before the shutter has a chance to click
they flap away
like they know the risk
and, warned by indian ancestors
that cameras steal the soul,
evade the staring eye
for fear they'll lose
the skill to fly.