Murder in the Field

The air harks to the sound of crows,

Distant and near,
High and low.

Some have landed calling to one another,
Their silken black feathers
Shining in the morning sun.

Others watch from treetop perches,
Bobbing and leaping between branches
Like excited shadows without a host.

Beyond the encircling trees,
Ten acres of golden field stretch outward,
Its tall crops swaying gently in the breeze.

The land is peaceful.

The whisper of wind through the grain
Carries across the open earth,
Soft and unhurried.

The quiet is broken by dark laughter,
By harsh calls carried on the air,

By the flutter of black wings,

And the sound
Of that murderous party.