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.
But how we do want to connect with something so pure in its purpose, particularly in these days that try so hard to divide us.
LikeLike
So true! Happy Holidays!
LikeLike