And Then The Crows Arrived
It was inevitable.
The grind of harvest drove the air dirtiest
and darkest of that autumn. Bent stalks
scattered in confusion’s state, and the crows
gathered like odd dark nooks and corners
across fields. They scrubbed plains and hazed
the horizon, then departed as winged flight
broadened. The air turned thin-skinned,
a gaze smudge where the breeze cloistered
a rattling distraction. The crows always arrive.
Found text remixed, Charles Dickens “Bleak House” and inspired
from personal diary enteries: Vester Aaby, Denmark 1990 August 28.
Also words from Sunday Whirl and NovPAD Day 30