About a Raven

A couple of years back I spent a wonderful few days on the far side of Lake Yellowstone, where I wrote and wrote, camped, ate great food, and shared stories with many great writers. The opportunity was provided through the Yellowstone Institute, and they have many great classes. If I could spend all summer with them, I would. During that time, I wrote a poem about a raven. I started with an idea of drawing in words the life of a raven. I had a few images in mind: a black bird in a night sky soaring, placing itself between me and the stars making them twinkle; the raven on a wintery limb of an aspen tree, watching wolves hunt. I wrote it in the first person perspective, and yeah. I took it home, edited a bunch of times over the course of two months or so, and I came up with what you see here. I came back to it about a month ago, read it over, and thought it pretty good, so I shared it with my writer's group. They urged me to publish it, so today, I looked up a few online nature poetry sites, and submitted it. I plan on submitting it to the Cutbank too. Any way, here's a poem for your enjoyment!

Portrait of a Raven
Winter, spring, summer and fall

are my favorite season.

I am a raven. I steal because I need.

My family make no excuses

for our actions; we live

how we live and we let

others know we’re alive.



Lamar snow and chilly forty below,

four-thirty sunset

with week empty-stomach,

we lean close-in --

my three brothers and I –

on a bleached aspen limb.

We watch three silent

dirty white wolves stalk.

A spiraling circle,

separating buffalo,

the old and slow,

to deep fields

where plucking is easy.

There is no fear,

this is our late dinner.



My throaty caw startles the world awake.

From low within winter’s shallow silent bed,

I bring Yellowbells back to life.

Rare spring calm, tonight,

cloudless, circling, stirring the wind,

shielding stars – twinkle.

I dance in my vespers.



In the early hours, I hop sideways

down main street of Mammoth.

On the sun-warmed concrete,

in a world disconnect from mine.

I find not what is true, real, or natural.

I scream hell at three million passersby.

I apologize for nothing.



One eye looks to the future

and one eye to the past;

with the low slung noon sun,

perched in a Cottonwood carcass

high above a red-leaved Bog Bush,

I use Winter’s breath

to tell how it is:

I am the running blue

of both river and sky,

purple perfume of flower fields,

whispering campfire smoke

that trails you around the rock ring,

and you’ll not guess,

but I am the void

of the starry sky,



and after black storms,

I am the rainbow.