A post, a fence – little evidence
of generations grazing steep
chemise and fractured granite,
snow flats and sage, in that other
realm of wild rules – the raven rests
to compose his next poem, his next
creative exercise to badger and pester
the nature of whatever happens by.
Perhaps, feed himself at the same time.
No saintly aspirations, nothing
memorized – he’ll stalk a newborn
calf by dancing to nursery rhymes,
looking to pluck out an eye. Quick
study, he reads motion and mind
and mimics us all, chortling in flight.
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