The Meadow

There is a chill in the meadow that echoes my thoughts.

The frost lays heavy and hard across the land.

I wait while leaning against an old oak.

Watching.

A murder of crows breaks the morning quiet.

I wonder what set them off.

They circle in the east and fly off over the silver meadow.

I wait.

Eventually they come one by one out of the forest.

Searching silently.

Morning breaks and they disappear back into the brush.

The day begins.