When the skies get pale ~ they are streaks of coal,
Jet-black and quick-like burning the sky.
Lonesome and frost-bitten,
They congregate to cry out their cold-cries,
And their breath hits the air like a puff of engine-exhaust,
Sputtering out as an after-thought,
An ethereal-poem released,
Hanging mid-air for a moment and then disappearing,
Over the branch into the common-air,
Who swallows it up in one bountiful-gulp,
And the raven-birds create tension on the quiet-branches,
That draws my impatient-eye to them.
Seeking change I congregate with them, a respite from the bitter-cold.
The lifeless-branch moves, and I cannot look away, .....I will not look-away.