Above the dry sticks of a winter without rain
Speed great flocks of chattering crows.
They head east into the fading mist at dusk,
As though searching for the ghosts
Of passenger pigeons,
Now lost in the mists of time.
The fields and trees that surround my home are filled with crows, and I must admit to a real fondness for them, despite their rather dubious reputation in the popular mind. The expression "A smiling man with a bad reputation" comes close to it.
The above poem was written after a late afternoon walk up a steep hill nearby that gives a commanding view of this whole area. I was amazed at the tremendous number of crows flocking as described, reminding me of the descriptions of the now-extinct passenger pigeons darkening the sky like a cloud over the prairie.
The image is Vincent Van Gogh's last painting, called "Wheat Field with Crows"