Early is the hour

     as day begins with

  half light

    dead calm

the call of crows

   pierces the softness of the morning

they talk back and forth

   in that lonely language

so recognizable and so distinct

  their calls echo

   across the woods damp with dew

one cannot forget

  their haunting sound

the sound of morning itself

   waking up to catch the last moon beams

crows converse among themselves

    of what they see and hear

from their crow's nests

high up in the tops of trees

    nothing escapes their observation

 

    intruders and directions 

       they see and tell all

      crow conversations

     across the black trees

               

        black as night

        black as crows.