The Crows will Crow

Here's a refined version of your poem with improved flow and stanza connectivity while maintaining the original themes and imagery:

Nature gives its season's greetings,
Whims are all but fleeting,
As the horde of crows perch.
Squawks are now in session,
Neither side to learn the lesson,
While death's shadow lurks.

Their feathers flutter in the warmth,
On chilled winds, snow descends outside,
For others, it may spell life or death,
To them, it's only a matter of pride.

Pointed beaks capable of truth,
Omitting only mutual lies,
Threads of life for the frail,
Clinging to frostbitten ties.

They represent the masses,
A narrative firmly set,
In the face of adversity,
Their needs are never met.

Trouble never graces the pecking order,
Marble eyes fixed no further,
Turned blind to public disorder.

A price is put onto existence,
Where hearts should state the distance,
Mouths silenced from resistance,
Our candles snuffed in an instance.

As the moult of Angels,
Hails down to Earth,
Some journeys will end,
destined since birth.

On chilled winds, they take to flight,
Nothing to deliver,
Concerned of self-plight,
The rest left to shiver.

Is cost ever a reason?
Are we truly on the right course?
To voluntarily allow treason,
For them to react without remorse.

Against all our muster,
Civilians burden the blow,
The sufferers will suffer,
And the crows will crow.