From a Swaying Hammock
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?
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Not Vassilis’s crow, or William’s, but close enough.
(Recently published in that vast anthology New Poets of the American West)
Joseph Hutchison, Colorado Poet Laureate 2014-2019, has published 20 collections of poems and edited or co-edited three poetry anthologies. He currently directs two master’s-level programs for University College at the University of Denver: Professional Creative Writing and Arts & Culture Management. Joe lives with his wife, Melody Madonna, in the mountains southwest of Denver, Colorado, the city where he was born. 
Thanks to Annie, the lullaby now has another <a href="http://ameriquebeckian.blogspot.com/2010/11/red-and-white.html" rel="nofollow">verse</a>.
It's funny, Vassilis. My wife doesn't usually like my poems, but she's been ravin' about this one.<br /><br />And Bob, I envy you! Crows won't talk to me ever since I made a snotty comment about Ted Hughes. What can I say? I was drunk!
Very nice moment,Joe! Thanks for putting it out there. (I admit, I thought I was the only one crows called by name. Okay, it's a raven for you, but most crows look at me and go "Bawb!"
Excuse my punning, Joe, but this is a poem to crow about!