Ravens

Already the ravens have arrived.
They line our highways
Where they thrive on the carnage of our technology.
They are stately and dignified birds --
Nature's own mystics --
Well acquainted with death.
I saw one at the side of the interstate
Gathering brown straw --
The remnants of another winter just now leaving.
Odd, but I had never thought of ravens making nests.
They will feed their babies, I suppose
From the skunks and raccoons
That we leave scattered along the highway --
Each one a little prophesy
Of the larger unraveling.
The ravens do not hurry.
They wait patiently for
Humanity's next offering.
They entertain visions
That one day it will be on earth
As in raven heaven.
And perhaps it will.
Even on the quiet street where I live
They are gathering.
As I sat on my porch this morning,
Drinking my coffee at sun rise,
It was the ravens I heard.
I miss the lighter birds and their chirping,
But there is beauty in the raven's voice as well.
I watched three of them
In an illicit triangle of love,
Chasing each other in circles of ecstasy,
Confident of their future.