Leavings the Dead Stutter

As ritual replaces love,

ravens circle the field;

their black eyes survey 

the ground’s cold wreckage.



Beneath fluttering wings

and caws, today’s blurred

light bathes my vision

with a new absolution.



Steam rises with the sun.

Morning dew mixed with blood

dampens all with a cold dead

sheen. The ravens land as one.



Turning my eye skyward,

I moan once, then lie still.

(October 3, 2014)

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Behold, a raven saying “Hello”.