Crows

The clouds roll in over lines of granite

And the grave newly mined,

Surrounded by a flock of somber kin.

While droplets fall from the sky,

Cold and hard as they crash into black brimmed hats,

The box of cherry and brass is lowered

And with it a boy who never knew five.

The air is heavy with the chill

of death, cut only by a momentary calm,

Where the breeze breathes

a solemn sigh and subsides.

As the final spade of earth absorbs the innocent,

A mother’s tristful tears are masked

by a mocking crow’s cackle,

heard overhead

As she descends upon her lively nest.