Twenty Rooks

Twenty rooks I count them as they fly Circling in the darkening evening sky Twenty black rooks circling round and round Twenty yards or so above the ground. Do they sorrow or do they rejoice? Who can tell rooks don't have a singing voice Music they don't have in them to play Caw caw caw is all they've got to say. Rooks are not the prettiest of birds Poets have never lauded them in words Ugly beak and feet and feathers dark And in their makeup not one beauty mark. Rook the most gregarious breed of crow Bring to farmer much financial woe Farmer look on them as nuisance type As they damage his grain crop when almost ripe. But farmer doesn't seem to understand That rook can be a good friend to his land They help his root and grain crop in no small way By keeping slug and wireworm at bay. Twenty black rooks cawing in the gloam And ready to begin their journey home And home for them oft times noisy rookery Where they make love and nest and disagree.