three jet-black crows
as fat as cats
perch like statues
atop three old
wooden gray fence posts
lined up in a row
which lean awkwardly
by the side of the road.
in the distance
ogonowski’s barn sits
on a low rise
its red painted sides
just a bitter memory
as long beams of bare wood
bake in this late afternoon
september sun.
given time even crows
will fly far
from these overgrown
fields choked full
with thistle and clover
as his once fertile farm
lies fallow now
returning to dust
and weeds.
