A meeting of the crows is taking place.
I watch them strutting and hopping their way across a field,
lazily stabbing the ground at seemingly random intervals.
Black shadows against a green sea,
tufts of white from dandelion clocks
interspersed with daubs of red poppy paint.
More of them swoop in - layers of ripples
and short sharp bursts of caws.
They do not mind my observing :
a few feign interest with an uncompromising stare,
whilst most are content to sidle by unmoved,
an ever roaming crowd.
And then as one
they peel back in to the air,
a great cloak caught in the wind...
and the meeting is adjourned.

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A Meeting of the Crows © Gillie Whitewolf 2004