Rooks
Tree tops liquid full of black ink
Absorbed by leaves in tones of jet
Three hundred prayer flags flap and kink
Arrive and set out from the wet
Pierce clear sky of empty blue
Like drifting plumes they rise and skew
In pairs the ghosts emerge and call
To rusted fields the couples fall
And find the banks of broken land
In gangs that rob the soil unmanned
Shards of darkness scattered there
They cast away to live on air
This is so evocative of the feeling when you spy trees massed with rooks: how wonderful.