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"
