Wheat field with Crows

Wheat Field with Crows


The wind blows,

The wheat imitates its motion

In the late night air.

The golden stalks

Glow in the moonlight,

In the remnants of the sun.


Suddenly –

A noise.

The crows, once at rest,

Begin to fly away,

Fleeing to safety

From the thundering boom.


You were in that field,

Vincent van Gogh.

You pulled the trigger

And away they went.

The crows abandoned you

Something you got used to.


See, Vincent,

Your heart was fire,

It burned hot.

It burned strong.

See, Vincent,

Their hearts were ice,

The water dripped,

And extinguished your flame.