Four Black Birds

by Munro Sickafoose

When the crows disappear,

Raven is not far behind.

Soon to be hanging out on the telephone wire

bang banging on a tin pie plate

for pleasure.

Even the redtails

don't mess with Ravens.

Below a thousand feet,

they are masters of the universe,

playing with lesser beings

at leisure.

All summer long

I tried to mimic Raven's call.

Never got a second glance,

nor caused those heavy

ebon wings to miss a beat.

One night

I dreamed myself in Raven guise,

with three black birds

who signed and spun in unison,

revealing secret lore.

Mimicked I these black ones,

signed and spun,

and thought myself so clever!

To be thought Raven myself

and revealed never.

Then I saw they also wore

the self–same guise

beneath whose shadowed hem

were black and horny Raven feet.

Ravens wearing Raven guise!

Lies!

Exploding raucous Raven laughter.

Dark feathers flying everywhichway.

Dark figures flying, dark secrets revealed.

Lies and laughter waking.

Raven faking.