On the way back to Dublin, from Bridgetown secondary where I'd given some poetry readings/workshops, I caught a glimpse of something that made me pull in: foggy fields, trees like greyed-in, monochrome studies of themselves, and the air nervy with rooks, all loose punctuation, shuddering from the branches in speckled waves, resettling a moment later, on other branches or wires or the fields.
As the man said:
...light thickens and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood.
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse.
Though in this case the good things were the crepuscular, foggy fields, dusk woods, rooks and a road.