Ravens at Deer Creek

Something’s dead in that stand of fir

one ridge over. Ravens circle and swoop

above the trees, while others

swirl up from below, like paper scraps

blackened in a fire. In the mountains

in winter, it’s true: death is a joyful flame,

those caws and cartwheels pure celebration.

It is a long snowy mile I’ve come

to see this, thanks to dumb luck or grace.

I meant only a hard ski through powder,

my pulse in my ears, and sweat, the pace

like a mainspring, my breath louder and louder

until I stopped, body an engine

ticking to be cool. And now the birds.

I watch them and think, maybe I have seen

these very ones, speaking without words,

cleared-eyed and clerical, ironic, peering in at me

from the berm of snow outside my window,

where I sprinkled a few crumbs of bread. We

are neighbors in the neighborhood of silence.

They’ve accepted my crumbs, and when the fire was hot

and smokeless huddled in ranks against

the cold at the top of the chimney. And they’re not

without gratitude. Though I’m clearly visible

to them now, they swirl on and sing,

and if, in the early dusk, I should fall

on my way back home and—injured, weeping—

rail against the stars and frigid night

and crawl a while on my hopeless way

then stop, numb, easing into the darkening white

like a candle, I know they’ll stay