Crow Poems Part II
Crow Farming
By Kristen Clapper Bergsman
Among a patchwork of farmland lies an acre of crows.
Within this field, thousands of crows strut,
pecking dried corn kernels from the soil.
The air is a whirlwind of crows.
The sound of wings and clacking beaks is like
dried cornstalks in a scratchy wind.
A windbreak of hybridized poplars beat their leaves,
flashing the silver undersides, faster, faster.
A wind crosses over the valley, stirring the acre of crows.
The crows take flight, tumbling in the sky
like a black wave rolling over the cornfields.
The wave breaks into rivulets, dropping crows onto the field,
splashing feathers and black dust onto the thirsty soil.
The crows return to pecking, strutting and scratching.
Months ago the farmer who owns this land tilled it and planted kernels of corn.
He watered it through the dry months.
He watched with satisfaction as the stalks grew to knee height, to eye level.
Routinely, he peeled back the corn silk to check on the ripening rows
of yellow-white teeth, a wide lipped smile.
Tidy rows of black crows line the field, cracking kernels in the dust.
Farmer plants corn. Corn becomes crow.
What becomes of a crow farmer?
By Kristen Clapper Bergsman
Among a patchwork of farmland lies an acre of crows.
Within this field, thousands of crows strut,
pecking dried corn kernels from the soil.
The air is a whirlwind of crows.
The sound of wings and clacking beaks is like
dried cornstalks in a scratchy wind.
A windbreak of hybridized poplars beat their leaves,
flashing the silver undersides, faster, faster.
A wind crosses over the valley, stirring the acre of crows.
The crows take flight, tumbling in the sky
like a black wave rolling over the cornfields.
The wave breaks into rivulets, dropping crows onto the field,
splashing feathers and black dust onto the thirsty soil.
The crows return to pecking, strutting and scratching.
Months ago the farmer who owns this land tilled it and planted kernels of corn.
He watered it through the dry months.
He watched with satisfaction as the stalks grew to knee height, to eye level.
Routinely, he peeled back the corn silk to check on the ripening rows
of yellow-white teeth, a wide lipped smile.
Tidy rows of black crows line the field, cracking kernels in the dust.
Farmer plants corn. Corn becomes crow.
What becomes of a crow farmer?
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