The crows

God bless the crows,
the lonely, despised crows,
nasty tattlers of ill omen,
mindless coveters of all bright things,
weirdly wise beyond all our years.

They haven’t the flash of grackles,
or the coquetry of the jays.
Mere thieves lining the wires,
dropping to scour the fields,
and wheeling above again
in great disturbing clouds.

The hunters shoot, the farmer poison,
the gardeners curse and scream,
The small children fear their
monstrous, backward-bending knees.

We are the creators, the masters,
the toil and sweat of the corn.
We can extinguish any life on this planet
we please, except mold,
and crows.

~ by Matthew on September 26, 2009.