Nov 08

The Crow's Field

The golden yellow field is now up in flames
Licking at the crows jet black feathers.
It squawks for its life flying upwards .
Towards the only hope
The sky.
Sparks drift off
Permanently staining its pristine feathers.
Every single crow is now flying high
Turning the blue to black.
The noise is unbearably loud
Causing even the trees to cover their ears.
The wind pushes the fire higher
Turning the unrecognisable field into a sea of flames.
The crows, now a safe distance away
Morn at the sight of the field.
Off in the distance you can see
Who or what lit the field a flame
Running away in laughter over this horrific sight.