Ramshackle cabins in deep forest,

steaming pools above a swift river.

You came here for a respite from marches and protests,

a reprieve from the news

of the savaging of the republic


but all the strangers in the hot tubs

who usually confide their

yoga injuries and cleansing diets

are clamoring fear

and politics.


So you hole up in your cabin

alone. Hiking at sunset you see

five ravens swoop through the cedars on the way to their roost

and you feel the thrust of their wings in your own chest

and taste their acrid cries in your throat.


Then deep in the night you awaken

to silence, aware

of the ravens out there in the trees

with their wings banked around the coals of their hearts

and their bright minds




for fellow humans is complicated

by creeps. Even corvids will pillage a nest.

At dawn the ravens rush back from the deeper forest,

their voices haranguing whoever still sleeps.

Black wings flaring with sunrise, they drive

the night back into hiding

for another day.