Migrant crows
in their black velvet capes
dance through
pooled morning rain,
pecking the water
with their talon-like beaks
as thistles
and wheat coloured grass
bend and sway
through the purple morning mist
to be mowed
and consumed
by old nomadic animals
appearing,
who surface from the passing
of an overnight storm,
over the sad eyes
of emerald hills
to be a sacrifice
for a lonely landscape
while a bitter wind,
with sharp teeth,
is arriving
without notice or warning.