After writing this I was visited by the largest crow I've ever see, as big as a hawk, but without a hawk's majesty, just a sense of foreboding, of death.

 

Murder: the collective noun for a group of crows.




Crows In A Dusty Field

In the furrows and fissures of the field

Where there is no rain and no grain,

The corn stunted stalks burnt brown,

Crows are fighting over what little is left,

Scavenging the scorched ground among

Bleached bones and tatters of pennons,

Rising, falling, advancing and retreating

Over the field of battle, no quarter asked

Or given, no nobility nor any heroic act

Of kindness or concession.                                        

                                                       They will take

Their hunger into the night, into the dark

Of their desire that is no less contested, not

Love but lust.  Even their hearts are black.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 430 times
Written on 2012-08-15 at 16:19

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normalil
I'm sure that they have a part to play in the great scheme of things, but I share your emotions, which I can understand after viewing such a creature as you describe. Though I do love to see them in flocks, and nesting as they do in great communities. I do like the sound of their "cawing."
2012-09-21


Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
A fine poem, Fog, but I'm surprised by your antipathy toward crows. They seem like decent-enough citizens of the countryside. Somebody has to help the flies gobble up dead things in the road.
2012-09-01



It's hard to think of crows without thinking about their blackness. The pinkish-reddish colors of their innards and the beating heart never come to mind. It just seems natural that everything about them is dark as midnight.

Well penned tableau.
2012-08-17