Alone to climb the hill of teeth
A black oily bird stitches
Triangles across the road
To hollow the tow of my
hands.
It is here that I met the elders
Body, it is here that the elder
had died on the road.
Falling from the clouds
It presses its eye in my skin
and I grasp it in my own claw
Until it swells near the traffic
of an all too familiar cold.
~S~
In the canyon stands a raven
Ebony feathers awash in the light of the mid day sun
Cooled by the splash of rushing water
The raven caws delight
An entirely different experienc, but that's the nature of the bird . . . inscrutable perhaps.
You might be interested in Wallace Stevens' "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird".
[Edited on Jan 26, 2006 10:58PM]