Black on gold, <br />It is black on flaxen, summer gold, <br />As they flex their soft, tarred wings, <br />Rising like steam <br />Above the warm, blond straw. <br /> <br />They wrap their scaly claws <br />On stretched metallic strands, <br />As they survey their realm <br />With tiny, polished eyes. <br />Gargoyles of the farmland. <br /> <br />Standing in rows <br />Against the Kansas sky, <br />They are like the old women in church, <br />Stiff, resolute, and a little too proud <br />For having kept the faith.<br /><br />Daniel James Webster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crows-14/
