Who conjures up such comparisons?
The souls of evil priests trapped
in their black, oily plumage.
Exorcised spirits croaking
in the deep crruck-crruck-crruck
of their call. For the flock
to be called an “unkindness.”
Seen as only
antics on a telephone wire,
scrabbling on the sidewalk,
or every task composed of selfishness.
Again this day is rollicking fun
with sticks in their heavy-duty beaks,
beaks that just moments ago
preened one another into a tidy bond.
I hear a chorus and not clatter.
I see cool practice in capturing
every potential kernel.
I encounter play in their
cocking side glances.
Nothing but pure, magnified existence.
I go outside to replant the empty pots.
The ravens remember my face
and trust I mean no harm.