Crows Poem by Daniel James Webster

Black on gold,
It is black on flaxen, summer gold,
As they flex their soft, tarred wings,
Rising like steam
Above the warm, blond straw.

They wrap their scaly claws
On stretched metallic strands,
As they survey their realm
With tiny, polished eyes.
Gargoyles of the farmland.

Standing in rows
Against the Kansas sky,
They are like the old women in church,
Stiff, resolute, and a little too proud
For having kept the faith.