• I AM STILL THINKING OF THAT RAVEN
  • I am
    still thinking of that raven
    in the valleys of Yush:
    with the double rustle of its pair of black scissors
    it cut a slanting curve
    from the paper sky
    and through the dry croaking of its throat
    is said something
    to the nearby peak
    which the weary mountains
    bewildered
    under the full sun
    repeated for long
    in their rocky skulls.
    Sometimes I ask myself
    what a raven
    with its decisive final presence
    and its mournful persistent color
    may have to say to the aged mountains
    when at high noon
    it glides over the baked ocher of a wheat-field
    to soar atop a few aspens
    which these tired sleepy hermits
    repeat for long
    together
    at summer noontides.