A ****** of crows --
the branches bare.
Time at the edge
   of the field
stands still.
Snow descended
   in the night:
a pure, white
caress of the land.
The crows tuck
their wings in tight--
eyeing  what could
be seen as desolation.

The field is empty
save the crows.
Time, time...
it had to happen.
Time, time:
it does not matter.
The field is still,
the crows are still.
Time: forgotten now.