Last month the city barred ravens from citizenship. The birds
agitated, strutting on dumpsters with picket signs: “Garbage
Collectors $60k/yr., Ravens $0” and,
“SILENT NEVERMORE!”
The issue divided families. Skeptical fathers found
red paint and black chicken feathers on their pillows
after commenting that, next, nuthatches will demand
Medicaid. The ravens have skipped town—
people say the moon owes corvids a favor
for liberating her from a giant. But who believes in giants?
Birdfeeders are deserted in a show of avian independence.
One jogger reported puncture wounds from a startled
flock of waxwings. Church membership, insomnia,
and canned good sales are up.
Now’s when the story of a young raven’s rise from dumpsters
to famous wealth,—and the ensuing big-budget film—
could win a conciliatory victory for ravens,
yet make townspeople feel secure and big-hearted.
Contrary to expectations, our garbage is not tidier.
It’s been three weeks, five days, and ten hours.
We wake to the same darkness, we drive the same routes to work, drink
at the same bars. Everyone talks about ravens now
that they’re gone—as if
we wonder how they got to leave. Or we wish
that we resembled our own shadows more.