conclave of ravens
pecking on dead branch of ash
peace fills the backyard
conclave of ravens
pecking on dead branch of ash
peace fills the backyard
like clockwork each day
pigeons sortee back and forth
at first and last light
cast upon these shores
who I am and all i have
gifts i did not earn
no shave November
cold wind caressing my beard
takes my breath away
beneath skyward ramp
people holding cardboard signs
begging unnoticed