~Max Yerid, Class of 2023

The crows set still among the darkened grass;
A once rare sight now commonplace, and now
The weather chills and darkness creeps sooner.
Clouds cover skies once ripe with colors bright
And sprawling life. More depressing tone takes
Its place, and blossoms hide their hue of past.
All else is still and silent. None dare try
To interrupt the quiet whistle of wind.
When either sunrise, sunset or between
The chills of winter move on evermore.

The simple crows know not of season’s cause.
They feel the change of heat and cold with time
And know of rain and snow and sleet and when
Their time to leave comes near. Yet they remain
in their place—barely twitching legs and wings.
As if they were bound to darkened grass and ground
Unable to take off. A thought untrue but
Appearing real. In truth, no fallen snow.
The winter’s untrue promise, used as a sign
To leave, yet time slips away, crows unaware of it.

The winter’s coming breezes frighten all.
Crows see no snow; no call-sign for the crime
No chime of the bell, no signals for the crows.
They shall leave soon; they better fly away.
The only truths of winter—cold and wind.
Haphazard weather here and there, snow sheets
Now rarer than ever, causing change in wake
True winter lasts no more; no blankets of snow
That line the forest’s ground, or snowmen built 
By little children, enjoying season’s fun.

The crows have their retreats far south from here
Tomorrow, maybe they will be long gone.
But who can tell? No one can be sure that 
They will go. Nature must decide if they
Fly away, remain, escape, stay. It is
All in the hands of Mother Nature now.