The raven pauses on it's perch then bobs it's head twice
as if turning on it's second sight and hops windward into the night.
Black feathers glistening in the mists of the dark and moonless evening
and as the shadows thicken the raven caws out to the night;
Thrice. Shivering still, I thrill, that at last, I am still.
The echoing I keep repeating has ended
and what I heard as the birds become words was the truth and always was.
As a new dawn greets you in turn greet it
and give thanks for the basic fact of being able to give it.
Life is to short to bicker over witch short cut is quicker
when we all run to the same tether that will never let you go.
As the raven blends in black on black with the night
a happy whistle comes to the boy who understood the words of the passing birds.
