In the still solitude of the winter
woods a hush hangs on the landscape
of dark tree trunks standing like
sentry posts amid great pine forest
giants anchored firmly by an
accumulated snow pack sifted
generously with fresh-fallen snow.
The sky, too, hovers, a mirror
image of the ground billowed with
snow, shimmering pearl-grey,
silver, white. The silence suddenly
broken by a coarse, hoarse racket
of deafening dimensions. A murder
of crows slaughtering the peace.
They shift and shuffle around the
prickly, lofty spires of two-masted
pines whose size bespeak their
majesty, dignity offended by the
rudeness of the invading horde;
cackling, croaking, lifting their
black wings outspread like phantoms
circling the landscape of the sky.
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