There were three ravens...

This is a poem written after a year of family losses: my brother's wife to leukemia; my sister's two sons and our well-loved Golden Retriever.

Evening News
   
for Brendan, Jane, Jeremy and Barley

There were three ravens sat in a tree
Down a down, hey down, hey down....

Three young crows sat on the shingled roof.
A flatulence of thunder danced over the lake,
ended humbly in the ditch. Crow One
sprung to the sky, flapping
crepe wings and trailing parched curses.
Or maybe it was laughter--how could I tell?
He flew like a fine black line drawn
straight to the heart of the storm, and
he didn't come back.

Two needed no Weather Channel.
She cranned her neck, pressed her breast
against nothing and lifted scrawny wings
to catch the next gust of wind.
Crooning hymns and love songs
she flew, flew, flew.

Last crow had flown far.
He shuffled a worry dance on the roof beam.
Late he tried to nest against the chimney,
but lightening took the whole damn thing.

The golden dog in the yard
below barked and chased off after them.

This is a tiny story set against
the events over the hill--
wars and AIDS and thieving politicians.
We always like to end the news with
something close to home.