Mogollon, New Mexico
My father speaks of a darkness
of ravens circling,
contemplating the next
wild fire. While wind croons
and keens in burnt-out pine
he cuts wood for winter—
A jet-black bird banks on the diamond
rudder of its tail,
buzzbombs the standing dead
tinder. My father’s square fingers
grip the chainsaw handle
and the blade spits piñon yellow. Caaaw!
Caaaaw! He straightens.
Did anyone bring a slice of bread? It’s nice
to leave a little bite for the raven.
But we have forgotten
our manners— No fresh-baked crust
for the seer. The bird veers
out to an enormity of sky— it is a dark
arrow, a shadow traveling. Where
will we all land
at the end of the ravening?
