The Crow
Then it is a distant cawing,
Growing louder—coming nearer,
Tells of crows returning inland
From their winter on the marshes.
Iridescent is their plumage,
Loud their voices, bold their clamor,
In the pools and shallows wading;
Or in overflowing meadows
Searching for the waste of winter—
Scraps and berries freed by thawing.
Weird their notes, and hoarse their croaking;
Silent only when the night comes.
FRANK BOLLES