Poem

He made his way quietly down the field, hidden from the crows by the hedge

and the shoulder of the hill. A babbling, raucous, clatter of harsh calls told him

they were feasting not far ahead. Then, as we got within sight of them, they

took to the sky turning it black. Hundreds of rooks, carrion crows and

jackdaws crowded the skies in an orgy of blackness. They flew every which

way in a panic. Every which way, that is, but within a hundred yards of us. I

was crouching behind him in the barley, which hid us. The barrel of his gun

was poking up against the sky......

Dad remained rigidly still. The air was tense. Silence, except for the sound of

their wings. Two or three black dots approached high above. The first one

was much too high, impossible to kill. But Dad leaned back until he was

straining, almost crushing my legs. A black speck, wings outstretched, moving

slowly, but so high it seemed tiny. He pulled the trigger gently. The gun recoil

sent a shudder through him to me. The shot had gone, but he was still peering

up at the little sight on top of the gun. The air smelt of cordite. Then, high

above him, the bird crumpled into something smaller and fell from the sky. It

landed about five feet from where we were crouching on the bone hard

ground with a feathery thud. All hell had broken loose. The crows knew that

we were there now and had a shot-gun. They fled like a kind of storm wind

that sucked the air from the field.

James Rebanks, English Pastoral, An Inheritance.

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