six o clock ravens

a season of ravens
outside my window
calling my name
each and every morning
give or take ten
minutes
at six-o-clock

from the sky they caw
from atop the spruce
they decend
scanning the yard
for breakfast
and feasting upon
my soul

"Caw! caw!"
I answer
for when they greet
I always respond
from low in the
voice box
eerily sounding
like a black bird
the language of ravens
easily spills
from my tongue

no stranger to nature
unmaddening as well
as madness
and other sandnesses
which generally
leave me at a loss
for words
If it were not
for the six-o-clock
ravens, I might become
mute as an agnostic
unhappy at happy hour
undead among the liveing

circumnavigating the world
like a kite built of stars
or a transmigration
of disembodied souls

a part of me soars
above
the rigepole
the smell of sunshine
landing on the crown
of the roof
like a king upon
his perch
ruling the green
midsummer wood

The six-o-clock ravens
call your name
and have eyes so dark
and shiney like garnets
reminding you of someone
forgotten long ago
no stranger to your love

the black birds
come because they
are enchanted by
your sweet tongue