Cattle-Crows

The trees are all alight with the sun
And are bronze-burning in their death.
The sky swims with crow-oceans
And the cattle stand dumbly under them.
The fields become a quaking night
For movement shudders the blackness there
Sound scatters these flying feeders
Casts them to the wires and cords,
Lamp-posts and fences
While the horses snort in pride
And ignore the cars going by.