lean on their horns
    clutching their wire parking space.
  Let quiet descend, stone to the bottom
       soon, a toreadorish cape swirl
         & floatdown before settling
         for their longer silent brood
  foreseeing another cold fog no crow
           able to fly above, just have to
      sit it out—their hunched shoulders
   silhouetted against the gray, total gray,
them, black monks, herd of obituary black
                           originals.