Heather Saunders Estes

Chimney Raven

It croaks twice, sounding deep in my chimney.
Pitching my voice to raven guttural,
I mimic the call.
Its claws scrabbling on the metal flue
it caws and awks two times more.
I try again, just one croak. I receive
silence.
Silence.

The next day, the bird declaims again
from a perch on the neighbor’s roof
where it sips from a puddle of rainwater.
Four croaks, then five, then four.
I slide the deck door open,
hoping for eye-to-eye telepathic connection.
It immediately glides away, sweeping the air.

I was without honor
in my desire to tame.
At a minimum, it was rude.
I interrupted its speaking.

I am not a raven.
It is not a golden retriever
or my garden, dependent on water I provide.
Just because I am touched by a moment,
a shooting star,
I don’t need to tame it,
feed it, be responsible.