(64) All because of a Murder of Crows

A Murder of Crows

Farmer in the field, hitching up his horse.
He works hard, toiling the land that is his mistress.
A dark shadow briefly obscures the sun like the
Foreshadowing of an evil intention
And the coming of dire woes.
There, in the distance, come more.
The bane of every good farmer.
The air is filled with the cawing of the crows.
He thinks of the loss of his beautiful wife
To the ravishes of time and too many harvest seasons.
She had been everything to him until
The field called his name.
The call that made him leave her and go.
A siren song of the lonely.
Now, the sun has passed it's zenith and all that is left
Are the fields where he has planted his neat, long rows.
Funny how time forgets the bad and cherishes the good.
Memories become hazy in the wistful wants of Life.
No thoughts of the promises broken or the
Consorting with dire enemies and foes.
Whispered words, thoughtless actions, betraying deeds
All things that crush the tender flower of Trust.
All lost to a faulty memory that would rather
Think of the love than of the truth that it knows.
It has become a rote, toiling this land.
It is a possessive mistress, demanding
Constant care and attention.
Otherwise, the crops won't grow.
Working the land, protecting the crop.
It is his livelihood, it is all he has left.
He will be ever vigilant or the
Black birds will feast upon the harvest of the rows.
Just as if the crows could hear his thoughts,
They begin to peck and dig into the tender soil.
The farmer watches and then yells, waving his arms
Like an animated heartless scarecrow.
The birds pause only for the briefest of instants and
Then return to their meal. They sing to each other,
Telling each other of the feast they've found.
The harsh, distracting sound of the crows.
The farmer unhitches his horse, thinking of a way to
Defeat this pillaging hoard. He will not let them
Destory what he has worked so hard to protect.
He wants to reap what he has sown.
The cacophony of the caws has become a symphony
Of sound. He stops, thinking he hears the words.
"No. It can't be. " He thinks in surprise.
There they are again: "We know. We know. We know."
Turning back to the black mass of feathers and talons,
He will not believe his ears. Birds don't speak, much less
Know the secret of the field.
How could they have discovered the secret of his woes?
Horror grows as his mind's eye supplies the image.
An image so real in the mind that it must be true -
Of the birds digging, seeking, finding...
He gags as he sees one pecking at the unearth'd toes.
They are gone when he looks up again.
It is nothing more than malicious
Tricks of a guilty soul that has overcome Reality.
Those white fragile bones of a love and a foe.
Inwardly, he nervously laughs, thinking of how futile
His fear was, as he almost falls prey to
The wicked irony of a tale that should have be
Crafted by the Master; Edgar Allan Poe.
Whistling, he swings his arms to scare the birds.
Mindlessly, he walks across the field, disturbing
The neat rows. The mistress will take her
Punishment from the muscles in his back, he knows.
Still, he does not care. He toils for her on this day.
The dreadful anniversary of the awful deed.
He will wave the birds away, those bearers of the
Terrible Truth. Then, he will get back to the plough and hoe.
"We know. We know. We know." Whispers
Through his mind like an insidious dream.
"They will know." Joins the whispers, an insistant
Reminder of a betraying act best forgotten, Though....
He cannot forget, try as he might,
The dreadful reminder of a sensless rage that made
Him foresake his duty, his one true mistress...
When it is sung in the cawing of the crows.
He wants to forget but they will not let him. The
Sound begins to drown out all else. "We know."
How do they know? Have they seen?
All he hears is the whispering of black birds, "We know...."
The farmer sees the black demon birds kicking
Away the dirt, discovering his desperate deed.
He howls in anger and fear and reaches for the gun
That is his protection and begins to kill the crows.
Maimed birds scream their pain and defiance,
Shedding feathers and blood. They call forth the
Secret, the hidden horror of the field as the farmer
Wildly shoots each betraying foe.
"We know. We know. We Know!"
The hollow voices of the more hollow skulls.
Whisper through the terror, prophetic in their words
"One reaps what he sows!"
'NO!' he screams! and digs through the soft soil,
He must see. He must feel. He must know.
Deeper and deeper into the dark, dank dampness.
Destorying all that he has toiled to grow.
He dug until he found that which plagued him.
The fragile, brittle bones, shattered like his lost love.
Laughing, he sat back into the
Soft soil, giggling in madness throes.
They will speak of it for years to come
About the farmer found mad in the field,
Surrounded by the dead birds and white bones
Of his wife and her lover. They nod. "Yes. We know."
They all had heard the booming shots of the gun,
Shattering the silence. They came running
To see what was wrong and found more than expected.
They found the Truth with all of its woes.
And all because of, a murder of crows.


E.B.