Rookery

Another day, another rookery, another poem, this time from Ireland.

ROOKERY
by Seamus Heaney

Here they come, freckling the sunset,
The slow big sailers bearing down
On the plantation. They have flown
Their sorties and are now well met.

The upper twigs dip and wobble
With each almost two-point landing,
Then ride to rest. There is nothing
Else to do now only settle.