With a raw squawk the raven breaks
his glide and alights on a pine’s
spring-like branch. What peaks gleam
in his onyx eye? What fat anoints his beak?
When I doze, it seems I hear my name
picked apart by his artful caws,
feel the combs of his claws
prowling among my graying hairs.
How can I sleep with him perched there?
Not Vassilis’s crow, or William’s, but close enough.
(Recently published in that vast anthology New Poets of the American West)