The Crows Cry

Lifting from the scarecrow’s arms
The murder of crows flew
Over the summer rye
Noisily protesting in alarm.
Finally they balance
On the lopsided barn roof
Resembling tiny black stones.
In the early morning light
They watch and wait for him.
The farmer walks the rows
Cursing the cluster of crows
Their dark eyes follow him.
He pulls the scarecrow down
Crushing it into the ground.
The crows erupt in sudden flight,
Their cries slice the silence deep
There voices seem to thrill
We celebrate be caws, be caws
Now the scarecrow sleeps.