tale to tale

Crows nest overhead,
Their gruff tones rebound against the grey houses.
Feeding their young,
Singing or bragging.

It’s Spring now,
And the fresh young eyes see their first sights,
And they are lucky to see this.
A peaceful town, a quiet town, with a bloody history.

This place lives,
It is burdened by its life, but profits from it.
What town doesn’t have a hellish foundation?
Bastogne is a novel, and the narrator’s are many.

The young crows born in battle,
Saw more than any eyes should.
Nature erupted, people at war, bloodshed and fear.
Flying high enough to stay clear,
But always in range of the screams.

The hungry crow circles the battlefield.
What would they have thought?
Food, pity, or nothing?
Man has fought so many times before, why is this any different?

Warfare had changed.
Tanks, shells and rifles all updated for the innocent eyes.
The harsh winter beat through men, turning their warm blood, ice.
Pity.

And as I sit here absorbing the sounds,
The harshest is the crow.
What bliss would that have been for the soldier.
To hear a new crow on a Spring morning.
Than a missile screaming in the bitter Winter.