Sat., Mar. 21

A raven's cry
is sharp, and loud.
He snaps an answer
to questions left unasked.
Above the sunrise,
still unfurled,
a goose or two honk
and in procession pass.
No people move
through houses wedged all around;
this hilltop
has inhabitants more vital
from millenia past
than these frail houses
will seem to last.
A rose burns to orange,
waiting on gold, and fire,
where eastern light is cast
asprawl the horizon,
filtering under the overhead clouds.
Mists are rough, and frail
where valleys fill with cars,
and trails of light.
More birds join in,
overruled by Raven
but heedless all the same.
Clinging tightly to the earth,
embracing the elevation,
holding out a reach from star to sun,
pole to pole,
latitude to latitude,
grasping Parnassus and Cherry Valley,
the Heart of Granville and
the encircling Welsh Hills.
This Alligator, this Caiman,
this Opossum, this Piasa,
this Underwater Panther
calls out to the Thunderbird,
the Great Serpent,
and an answer echoes off of the sun,
rolling across the figure
and binding past to present,
right here,
right now.
In the valley below,
a bell tolls.
Raven answers.