The Crows

High in the trees o’er the rain-soaked earth
The birds all sing to the new day’s birth,
And above it all comes the rasping call
Of the crows in flight as they survey all.

Black wings high over greening fields,
Off in search of a new day’s meal.
Their call’s not sweet and their flight is slow,
But work they must, so off they go.

Their eyes are sharp to the earth beneath
For food to put in their little ones’ beaks.
Scavengers all, as they scout around,
Their scent is keen as they comb the ground,
Back in the nests their little ones cry,
And they must eat, so the crows must fly.

Though oft’ despised, still they carry on;
They do their work and they sing their song.
They have their part in nature’s plan
And their call is heard all across the land.

Well, I may not be with beauty endowed;
My song is hoarse and my voice too loud.
Be my failings quick and my movements slow,
I still have a place in this world below,
And I must work, so off I go
Just like the crow.

By Christine Goodnough

First published in Letters from Home c. 1996 by Christian Robin Writers

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