A raven coasts over the hill,
over the late-autumn maples
all amber, umber and ocher.
He grasps the top-most branch
of a white pine and looses guttural
croaks that carry through the valley,
declaring his sovereignty.
Purple glints off his black.
From this moss-covered rock
where I perch, I offer him apples,
wait for his curiosity to be piqued,
wait for wings to glide down,
wait for him to strut over,
eyeball my gift and consider.
I have always wanted a raven.
If he takes the bait and
becomes my friend, and
stops by daily for a snack,
I will not name him.
I will not claim him.
Poem by Deborah Dickerson
Deborah Dickerson writes regularly letters to friends and poetry on occasion.