TRE CORBIES

I’ve encountered Ravens three times.

When  introduced to the drum that was

Poe’s haunted heartbeat; he was worried 

about something he thought he lost, 

but the Raven knew,

the Raven crowed, 

the Raven mocked. And

I wanted to slap Poe’s emo face;

tell him to get a life…

Dean Arnold was crazy mean,

had a sign on his door that read,

“KNOCK, IF NO ANSWER, LEAVE!”

He drank too much while he restored

pre-war Fords, and was married

to a pretty witch, Sheila, and her dry rasp.

She wore long gowns, feather earrings,

and metal studded with bright stones

all over her fingers.

Her bony hand brushed blond straw

off her forehead, and encircled my wrist

as she dry-whispered, “You’re new here;

know where I can get a Raven?

I’ve got two crows, but I want a Raven.”

I looked into those watery blue eyes

and noticed a vacancy there,

so I smiled, said,

“Sweetheart, you are a Raven.”

She slumped into a flowery chair

And nodded seriously to herself

for a while…

It turns out the Grand Canyon

is peopled by a large unkindness

of Ravens so black they look like holes

cut in the space and time they occupy.

We were all warned to leave nothing out

while hiking away to see the sights.

They will descend, six, or ten of them

to examine, bird thorough, your camp.

When you return, you’ll wonder

“What happened to my toothbrush,

that candy bar I left on the table,

and my car keys?”

Altogether, whether your corvid is an

accessory to murder, or is just unkind,

from what I’ve seen, and what I’ve read,

I can think of worse companions

in a final meeting in the air, than

Odin’s Huginn (thought) and

Muninn (memory) as escorts

to the other side.

Reviews

[Ken Simm.]

The local old Raven around here I have christened Quoth. We have usually Hooded Crows rather than any other type or Corvidae. And I love the use of collective nouns for these birds of Omen. If you see a crow in a flock its a Rook. If you see a Rook on its own its a Crow. Paliament of Rook, Murder of Crows. And as you say an Unkindness of Ravens.
Now I love the seasonal atmosphere here. The gothic Americana. The horror and the personal human story.

[Vol]

Thanks, Ken!
Back in the late fifties m y grandmother raised a crow that had fallen out of its nest. It was never potty trained, but we didn't mind because it could talk better than some of her country neighbors, and rode around on her shoulder. We were visiting on Sunday afternoon when Mama came out to sit on the porch swing where we had gathered. "Blackie" said "HELLO! HELLO! HELLO! danced around a little bit and flew off, never to be seen again... Poor Mama! she called for that bird till well after dark. She lamented his disappearance all the rest of her days...
Vol