So freely have images
Flown before me;
Reflected in my
Stream of consciousness.
Now...
Crows come,
Picking at my
Neat rows of wording,
Leaving crow tracks
In my
Field of endeavors;
Eating tomorrow's
Verbiage for winter.
What shall I use
As a scarecrow
To chase away
These cackling crows
From the fertile fields
Of my mind?