They come in low, wings like dark bandages
Slung on their backs: air-minded monks
With bright devil eyes: these thieves
Would never hang beside our Christ!

The corn does a yellow dance in the wind.
Hills bleed grays and browns and the sky
Is dull blue. Nature’s drabbest season
Sprawls like a clown in church, not
Knowing whether to laugh or pray

          but the crows
Do both, coming in low, not concerned
With the farmer’s anger, quite equipped
To handle the shot that lifts at them.

Leave it so: suspended:
The farmer’s ragged angry face;
The earth, upon which all things are quick or slow,
Dependent on the gun of the farmer and the wisdom
          of the crow.