I walked through cold, ear-drumming air,
Up to the fell then down to the trees,
Where contemplation was thieved
By a cacophony of caws.
The rooks - swooping or roosting, two
that stared like white eyes in air,
And then they were gone.
A rook’s mind is a thing of shreds,
Of scraps of sound and sight.
Without a known perch or gunk to land on,
They are better than us.
Without a sentence of song,
The black birds rose up from the trees
In a smudgy clatter, a cloud of scrawls;
They passed over my head and were gone.
I knew them by their voices.
But if they had not spoken?
About the Creator
John Welford
I am a retired librarian, having spent most of my career in academic and industrial libraries.
I write on a number of subjects and also write stories as a member of the "Hinckley Scribblers".
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