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 enraptured with itself,
Like a woman weighed down by heavy foreboding,
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.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt