Perched upon leafless silver limbs, a conspiracy of Ravens croak to me.
I a weary traveler on life’s road stand before an aged tree.
Wings as black as darkest night, shimmer although absent light.
Feathers to preen, depths within solemn beaded eyes, having all of history seen.
The gargle of their dialogue
becoming clear as a lifting of fog.
Wise words,
From these large beaked black birds.
With wings spread, a rush of air howls by their flight,
Each sage departs as shadows from my sight.
As quickly as I heard their word, so they disappeared.
Alone I ponder to make clear, all that left their beaks to fill my mortal ear.
