The Crow Fence

He sat in his balcony
Morning it was, raining it was
The blades of grass, twinkling, shining,
With the purest colours, as if
God himself washed them, watched them

He saw a barbed fence
Unconcerned, in the jungle
Discarded and forgotten
And the crows sitting on them
Crowed, shrill and somewhere rotten

A muffled rumble somewhere
And they flew amok
Spots and trails of black
In the morning blue
The crowing slowed down, silencing

Slowing, they disappeared
Into the woods and green, silencing