What are these ravens doing in our trees,
Calling on doom and outworn prophecies? –
Flying in threes.
Their sinister shadow, their funereal wing
Blots the fresh color out of everything.
They do not sing,
Nor shake their throats like all the other birds;
But, in cracked monotones or broken thirds,
Their crooked words
Cowardly and contemptuous are thrown
At scarecrows who, with business of their own,
Let them alone.
Leave a Reply