Crows in November
by John MacKenna
Suddenly there is sky where no sky was before,
the branches form these unexpected scratches,
their leaves gouged overnight.
And crows trough down, slashed remnants of dark cloud,
their wings blown shapeless as they sink,
on sudden squalls hard out of the gusting east.
Heads low, they graze the small, secluded field,
below a winter ditch,
their backs hunched taut against a raw and bladed sleet.