The trees clack
& sway as I walk
between them. Cloud-
shadows race over
the ridge, making the sun
flicker like a movie projector.
It’s thirty years ago, or twenty.
It’s just last week. I hear
a harsh cry & look up.
Right overhead, a raven —
out flying, I’m sure, for the sheer
hell of it — kites sideways
& upside-down into the wind.
It keeps pace with me
for half a minute, as one
might navigate by any
predictable thing.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Wonderful images, and an experience I’ve had, created with so few words.
I’m loving the word-pictures your typography is making, Dave…
marja-leena – I’m glad to hear this captures your experience as well.
Pica – You mean the shape of the lines on the page? That’s cool. I don’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about it, aside from preferring a certain neatness. This one narrowly missed being cast as a paragraph of prose.
Evocative poesy, Dave! And I envy you; I wish we had ravens! Around here we have to make do with crows and kestrels.
That last line made the poem, tying the images together with an intriguing idea which highlights an essential difference between 2D and 3D modes of movement.
Thanks, Larry. I guess ravens are a more northern species. I don’t think they were common here before the late 70s. They make a lot of neat noises, and they love to play in the high winds when crows are laying low.
Man moves least. Bare forked creature.
I liked this.