Three leagues North as the raven flies, messenger of the gods. In barren white, the call sounds. One for sorrow, two for mirth. Three’s a wedding, four a birth. Ink on snow’s stark canvas, weightless as a shadow, black as night before we flooded the sky with blinding light, erasing stars.
Five for silver, six for gold. Seven a secret ne’er to be told.
Wise eyes of untold depths. Truths we shirk from in an ocean of knowledge whose surface we have only skimmed. The ancient ones saw a scarless Earth and marveled at its pureness.
Eight for Heaven.
The ravens lament what we’ve done.
Nine for Hell.
Silent sentries keeping watch from the naked boughs. They pass silent judgment.
Ten for the Devil’s own sel’.
*Reference to “Counting Crows” rhyme, The Folklore of Birds by Laura C. Martin © 1993