A cacophony of crows march across the low mown field.
A glistening oily patch spreading amongst upright gold stalks.
Invading the quiet pastoral scene with their
Undulating, arguing and shiny selves.
The mass freezes in caution as they stop,
And point a shield of black beaks,
Towards the hawk invaded sky.
A flock second later, a crow flaps and flies,
Followed by one, then more, and then all.
An ominous dark spray, retreating to tree tops,
Seeking asylum.
About the Creator
Terry Roe
Some people paint, others dance, and happy people sing. Writing is the white space that allows me to color some moods, move some thoughts, and hum some tunes.
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