The ravens here are not all black
but ashy, and call at night
as they fly by my window,
streaking my sleep with those
wings, some familiar call
to darkness and light,
reminding me of the light,
how it appears in sparse but
felt corners. The plastic sunflower
on the vanity. A thin string
of violin across the river, that
somehow doesn’t fall into the water
and drown far
from my ears,
but is carried in the beak
of an ashy city raven.