Perched on the edge is the rigid black bird,
Perceiving forests and each of the trees.
Unable to utter a single word.
Calm and motionless, despite building breeze.
Off in furthest distance dark clouds amass;
The sky opens, dropping sheets of hard rain.
Harsh winds blast, whipping through the circling grass,
Yet wall-like and true, silent songs refrain.
Standing without whispering on the hill
What would be told if telling something could?
There is no call, nor a tune, nor a trill;
Is nothing more beneath this lump of wood?
A story wise behind image graven?
Strong voice flies from unfeathered, Big Raven.
© Keely Myles
May 12, 2015