When the crows disappear,
Raven is not far behind.
Soon to be hanging out on the telephone wire
bang banging on a tin pie plate
for pleasure.
Even the redtails
don't mess with Ravens.
Below a thousand feet,
they are masters of the universe,
playing with lesser beings
at leisure.
All summer long
I tried to mimic Raven's call.
Never got a second glance,
nor caused those heavy
ebon wings to miss a beat.
One night
I dreamed myself in Raven guise,
with three black birds
who signed and spun in unison,
revealing secret lore.
Mimicked I these black ones,
signed and spun,
and thought myself so clever!
To be thought Raven myself
and revealed never.
Then I saw they also wore
the self–same guise
beneath whose shadowed hem
were black and horny Raven feet.
Ravens wearing Raven guise!
Lies!
Exploding raucous Raven laughter.
Dark feathers flying everywhichway.
Dark figures flying, dark secrets revealed.
Lies and laughter waking.
Raven faking.
About the Author: Munro Sickafoose hails from Texas (and various Army bases around the world), and currently lives in Oregon. He has been a jewelry designer, punk musician, ranch hand, salesman, ski lodge cook, Shiatsu practioner, white–water rafting guide, fiction writer, poet, and many other things besides. He currently runs Diamondheart Studios (a web design company); edits a webzine, Coyote Madonna; and sits on the board of directors of the Wilderness Guides Council, an international organization of Vision Fast guides.
Copyright © 2007 by Munro Sickafoose. The poem may not be reproduced in any form without the author’s express written permission.