Walking Sylvia’s Path

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.