Company of Ravens

 

In the town where I live

the hills hold it as if

they were the sides

of some catch basin or well:

a bird bath with reflection

of the sky on its surface.

There is a silent rage in spring storms,

not quite black, not quit blue.

Young green shadowed by old pines

under dirty, white sky.

Ravens go crazy

screaming for no reason

into dark conifers,

ancient spots in stands.

And they congregate in wheat fields,

worshipping a new animal each day:

scavengers who prey before storms.

Their homes are hidden,

shiny objects which fascinate.

They do make them.

I’ve seen them dragging

branches across the sky.

Black birds flying

between the well and the sky.

They leave watchers

laughing on the buildings:

the high places of town.

 

first published in Living With a Stranger: self portrait, 1993.

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About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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