I’m looking at rooks again.

Rooks rooting in the wet soil,
one rook, and another, and another,
all across the field, moving,
not military, no, more like
a mob of mates, meandering
not marching. Rooks roost
in the ash trees at the top
of the long meadow. Rooks rise
whirlwinding into the grey air,
I don’t know why. I never see
what triggers it, I only know
they rise, they circle, they spread out,
not tied together like the starlings,
not in a sharp-carved V
like the wild geese,
but just a rambling, rolling, riffraff rabble
of black wings, feathers splayed.

Bjorn is hosting MTB night at dVerse. He’s looking for assonance, consonance and alliteration. All of those things are hard to avoid, I think, but sometimes it’s good to do something consciously, like concentrating on your forehand.