Ravensong
Each morning, they gather,
a council of shadow wings
against the pale rise of dawn.
They do not sing—
they declare,
sharp and guttural,
words I cannot know
but feel in my chest,
where night dreams
still linger.
Black eyes glint like secrets,
like the edges of things
forgotten
or yet to come.
They hop and nod,
conferring with dry earth,
lifting their shoulders
as if shrugging off the weight of the sky.
I wonder if they wait for me,
if I am part of their routine—
a figure they watch with quiet amusement,
their dark humor
woven into warm, dusty air.
Do they bring omens?
Or only themselves,
the steady rhythm of wings
reminding me
that the day is already in motion,
and I,
like them,
am bound to it.
