Raven pushes hard against brutal grey wind. The wind pushes back,
harder.
Fleet winged specter black against the sky, raven gains short distance
for each longer distance the sky hurls him looping backward, off the direct
path some say Corvidae fly. Sky and sky-rider's rhythms in muscular opposition,
the determined bird makes progress.
Circuitous for sure. Daunting, even. Progress nonetheless.
Thrown down near a nascent spring treetop, raven alights on its spindly
fingers. Those wave wildly back and forth as if trying to shed him. Raven hangs
tight and catches his breath.
A raucous call goes out. It rides high and wide or is unheard, on the
will of the wind. No answer comes. Raven launches off, again against a howling sky.
Maybe the answer just went unheard by me.
When day ends, raven won't be where he'd intended at the start. The sky
determined otherwise.
Closer must do. And it will.
Frank, that is quite poetic in its nature. I love some of the clipped sentences and the extremely economic use of words. It's good to read something by you again.
ReplyDeleteThank-you sir, for the kind words. Essays don't allow for the kind of flourishes fiction encourages. It was rewarding. Perhaps I'll do more, we'll see.
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