The Ravens

Over the black crevice

at noon the ravens rush with rusty cries.

Their shadows touch the deer’s back

and at times they loom in gnarled rest.

O how they derange the brown stillness,

in the one acre itself entranced,

like a woman married to grave premonitions,

and at times you can hear them bicker

about a corpse they sniffed-out somewhere,

and sharply they bend their flight towards north

and dwindle away like a funeral

march in the air, shivering with bliss.