Fall 2007 / Spring 2008

The Ravens

by Edward Reilly

The Ravens intone their morning canticle,
Antiphon echoing response between heights,
Spreading music over neighbors' backyards,
Another down in the river's green valley.
It's getting on to nine —daylight saving—
Enough has been said and sung since dawn
To fill the great Library of Alexandria.
What would a piper make of a magpie orison,
A fiddler of starling lisps, currawong whistle,
Or that lonesome bark of my blind dog
Hopelessly circling in on himself?
A radio coughs into existence, wavelengths stretch
Between here and a land so distant
That the voices reaching out grow languid,
Unrecognizable after their traversal:
Tu, sole tu, she croons into the aether,
And her embroidered blouse floats
Scarlet blossoms across her breasts.
Yet, I see how one carelessly scattered seed
Has given rise to delicate vines and golden crowns,
Promises of plumped gourds and mellowness:
Jacaranda is still in blooms, and a vine sprouts
In delicate clusters of pink, but the apple,
Tree of my despair has but a few wormy fruit.
My supplications have seen the tomatoes redden,
Our two cats fossick amongst the staves.
And the wind, whistling about the girl's feet
As she dances high on her trampoline,
Sings of telephone lines and open plains,
Ruffles ravens' hackles, eliciting another canto.