Rooks
A nature poem
The rooks are calling,
scrawling across the sky
Blustering in black drifts
Surfing the funnels
the tunnels of air,
the lifts and falls
thermals from cliff,
over forest and field,
house and garden.
The noise is deafening,
silences our conversation
for moments at a time
as we stop, watch, listen.
The conversations are many,
call and response, a chorus of agreement.
Consensus reached
they all settle, softly now
into the tall trees surrounding our view,
black shapes on darkening branches
shadows occasional jostling for position,
among the tips of trees withered,
scorched by late springs freezing winds,
Opposite two crows, larger, quieter
observing as we do from their loftier treetop
pass occasional observations over their noisy cousins.
The light settles, dusk creeps into the night
and we return indoors.
