In an utterance unheard,
The plundering rook vocalized his mourning dues

Greeting the soil with dejected gratefulness,
He plucked twice-dead worms from the shallow

The sky wept it's abundance to the Earth, cleansing the Willow's barren branches
Rendering the rook content until sunrise should again return

The night settled gently, as wisping strains of sun tapered away until dusk had become but a passing memory

But the rook had no dream that night

Rest and wake. Perhaps tommorow will bring providence for visions.