The Raven

 We have had colds, discouragement, and general looniness here at the Olson household for a few days now; So I revisited a happier time today, finding a poem that I wrote when we lived on a farm in Oregon. Boy, do I miss that place. There was so much wildlife, particularly birds: Wild turkeys, vultures, songbirds, and ravens. I would spend much time (because I used to have a lot of that) observing the resident fowl and their antics. This poem is about one of my observations:

The Raven

He flies above with wings black and shiny,
As he peers down at me, I must seem so tiny.
His errand takes him to his home in that tree,
Which stands above others, so tall, dark and spiny.

I hear his voice call, so scratchy and creaky,
At his own jokes he laughs, both clever and cheeky;
He flaps towards his nest that is made up of sticks,
By a bird black as night, curious and sneaky.