From a Swaying Hammock

With a raw squawk the raven breaks
his glide and alights on a pine's

spring-like branch. What peaks gleam
in his onyx eye? What fat anoints his beak?

When I doze, it seems I hear my name
picked apart by his artful caws,

feel the combs of his claws
prowling among my graying hairs.

How can I sleep with him perched there?

Copyright © 2007 Joseph Hutchison All rights reserved
from Chautauqua Literary Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission