R IS FOR ROOKFLIGHT

Rooks sail on black rags; ragged, flapping, soaring

With broad, black-backed awkward grace.

Flakes of black ash strike the wind on edge.

Sooty tatters slice grey Boreas’ whistling rattle.

Rollicking swoop down the torn arc,

Scooping shovelfuls of grey sky.

Greasy corsairs of the air,

Death’s tarry plunderers bucaneering earthwards.

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