My flock was flawed from the very start
More strategy perhaps than heart
We sheltered in a brick and mortar nest 
With little instruction, we were a holy mess

 
So I comb these skies for a murder of crows
And I know I’ll need some time to build my own
Seeds on the sill, waiting for a shiny stone
 
There’s a timid beacon, an ever- crowded sky
It calls to the birds that still wonder why
Volume was never gonna be
Our murder’s, our murder’s marquee
 
So we comb these skies for our murder of crows
We constantly leave but we never ever really go
Seeds on the sill, always room for more
 
I remember back to that very first home
The starter’s whistle for an extra bone
What on earth did any of us know
About a real murder, murder of crows