Like badly drawn freehand straightish lines on a near-blue page furred with white gauze,
the black cables wobble in the wind against the cloud wisp movements in the sky.
Crow claws clamp birds to this floating therapy, arousing buzzes in their feet,
and they wait, lower, higher, lower, higher, lower, higher, low, high, low, high.........
Below, something etch-a-sketches a winding path in ragwort, a thread-stream
in amongst the yellow carpet and a radar hawk homes in on a new treat.
Above the impending kill, above the cables, a fighter jet rips across the silence
and a mess of crows splatters the heavens, a sky no longer neat.