Crop Circle/A Murder Of Crows

A poem on life and death and its grand insignificance

Image by Jasmine Poulton

There stands the wind beaten shack
once it was blue
now faded to the tones
of the never ending field

a murder of crows
have no concern
for where the sunflower seller goes
come winter

the caws grow closer
they are saying something
but the cars are too loud
she went the other way

the sun seems tired
there’s a violet in the air
like a starving snake beams slither
then pounce and pierce the skin

think of all the things
that can’t feel the cold
this door could swing a thousand years
with no place to be sad

reason is buried here
irrelevant to the road
each crop and harvest being nothing more
than a dandelion in a breeze.