In the pine woods

Baby crows are being fed
In the pine woods below

It is August already
They are adolescent

They only sound like big babies
Their parents must be

Dying for them to leave the roost
When they are hungry

All they do is cry piteously
For their bellies to be filled

With whatever their frantic
Parents can scrounge

And yet somehow
They all make it and then

Before long it turns cold
The pines get lonely

And go to sleep and who
Guards their sacred slumber?