A murder of crows soars above the golden corn,
Their wings furled against the buffeting wind.
Beneath this blinding glare of Provencal sun,
The air feels heavy from the steaming earth.
There is no shelter from this wild wind;
So I spiked my canvas to the stubble plain,
To frame this dazzling bonfire of a sun -
These fields, swept by its archangel light.
I'm staggered by the fierceness of this place;
By these crows that rip and tear each other -
Cold, and black, and as pitiless as death,
Scrapping over the remnants of my dreams.
Copyright 2018, Brent Hightower
*Image, public domain