The Poetry Marathon

XII.

And let me say this,

I watch Ravens pump

glossy black wings

 

Hear them beat the air down as they

fly low over the garden,

over my head

 

Or see them black

at a distance, passing smoothy

in front of Mt Abe

 

Or listen to their chatter and deliberation

at nesting time, and the first flight

of gawky fledglings

 

Cherish glossy curled feathers

found under their nest tree.

 

And I just come out of myself and soar

with each Raven sound and sight.

My totem animal not doubt –

or my next reincarnation.