I once saw a raven,
A perfect jet contrast to the fresh fallen snow.
He had an unruly feather which stuck up behind his back.
At first,
I thought it was a flaw in his shiny black dressing,
Or like a hair that just won’t conform.
But as I looked longer,
I realized that it was more like
A crop,
Or a jockey’s whip,
Clutched in the hands of a long-dead general
Who paced restlessly before his battle-ready troops.

But the Raven only commanded the attention of the rocks,
And the trees,
The new snow that covered the ground,
And me.
And I hoped,
For Patton’s sake
That Reincarnation
Wasn’t real.