The Raven

It was the dark raven
who was the first to know of their return
sitting, as he was, like a silent sovereign
in his iridescent cloak of starless night
It was he who stayed behind each year
when the birds of many colors took flight
and laid chase to the sun as it receded into milder climes
fearing it would disappear altogether
and steal away their brilliant hues in perpetuity
He sat on his perch in the barren vineyards
where the row of grapes forgotten at harvest
had molded then shriveled to raisins having
pressed out nary a glass of sweet wine
His keen ear in his pretty head turned
at once into an impossible angle as he
perceived their arrival by the din
of their cacophonous twitter
singing of their triumphant rescue of the
Sol Invictus and his return to his throne
The dark raven tired of their
immutable chatter knowing full well,
as he did, that even should they
choose to rest their wings next fall
the sun would return to the very same
spot the following year
He unfolded his majestic wingspan
and lifted himself above the clamor
With glittering eye and bated breath,
he deigned to alight upon my open window sill
and as I took my tea, he turned his intense gaze up to me
which spoke of the mystery of these things
in black velvet silence

painting: Odilon Redon – the Raven

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