Over the black corner at midday

The ravens rush with hard cry.

Their shadow streaks past the doe

And sometimes they are seen in sullen rest.

O how they disturb the brown silence

Of a field lying ecstatic with itself,

Like a woman ensnared by heavy intuition,

And sometimes one can hear their nagging

Around a carcass scented out somewhere,

And suddenly their flight bends northward

And disappears like a funeral procession

Into winds that tremble with lust.