Rooks at twilight

We are waiting for the rooks to rise
the way they rise each evening
the way they rise as the light falls
the way they rise as one
rolling bowling calling squalling roiling boiling swirling whirling
mass of birds
wings spread like hands
against the darkening sky
circling once
twice
then settling again
black leaves
black fruit
black birds
carved out of nothingness

and I wonder what stories
they tell themselves
about how it is
to be a rook.

For Lill at dVerse OLN.