by Sarette Danae
There’s a raven who haunts me, especially on days like this. From the corner of my eye, I’ll catch his silhouette slicing through the sky. He rides the currents, catches the breeze, never needing to flutter or flap. You’d almost think he was painted on the air or pulled on a string like a backdrop prop in an old Broadway show. I said he haunts me, but that’s not quite true. He hovers, he observes, he takes note. Of what and why, I don’t know. But one day, when I turn, to face him full on, he won’t slide out of view, like a shadow at noon. Instead, he’ll land with a scratch and a hop before revealing the secrets and stories that he’s gathered, shoring them up all this time.
Sarette Danae is a teacher and writer hailing from Seattle. Her poetry has been included in publications from Portugal, Scotland, the Netherlands, and the United States; most recently her work appeared in The Metaworker and Amsterdam Quarterly. When not writing, she can usually be found hiking with her husband and two dogs.