The larking of the crows, Dawn: The dark days 

The tree's  splitting shadow, obscure,  silent 

 Whips of black, crack the dull morning daze 

 The breaking light crimson, almost violent 

 The cold air, sharp as a knife 

 Reeds stand  indifferent, fixed in frost 

 Awaiting judgment,  awaiting the scythe 

 The scene: in color warm, in essence lost.