the nature of the omen

a little bit of free verse/prose.

carefully the thinker sits upon his stool of stone

and watches the embers of the hearth crackle as they fade

releasing curls of smoke into the air that pass by his ear 

like whispers warning of the visitor approaching. 

but they are blown away by little gusts of wind by the unrequited omen

as his wings close to settle on the shoulders of the thinker

who then turns to meet his charge, a solemn little raven

enrapt by the embers as was he, head forward, feathers glistening

with light reflected from the hearth that caught his whitened, blinded eyes

in a way that caused the thinker to question how he saw the flame.

he held a coin in his beak, the little raven, clearly scarred

by what must have been years of clenched carry that wore grooves

into the bird's obsidian beak. 

curious, he contemplates, curious. 

for what use does a blind crow have for a pretty such as that?

and does he contemplate the dying flame as i? does he merely seek the heat?

oh, to think of what those crippled eyes may see!

curious, he contemplates, curious indeed.

without a warning, the little sojourner lets slip his coin

landing dully in the soil, dust clouding its silver sheen.

the thinker picks it up with care, as one takes in a baby on the doorstep

and lets it dance across his knuckles, listening to the raven exhale;

breath whistling through his grooved beak with marked relief.

the coin, he notices, is badly marred on either side, 

making it impossible to tell which side was which. 

and even though the gesture would hold no weight, he flips it in the air

as carelessly as one whose life might hang in the balance 

of that silver spinning coin, whose fate may rest on a simple head or tail

and as the nature of the omen bids him, the bird without warning

lunges and reclaims the coin as his, riding gusts into the night,

the thinker never knowing if he was meant to live or die.