Elijah hid by ravens fed.
In a frozen meadow
a distant waterfall rumbles, and
a man sits on a cold stone wall
next to a raven flown down
to stand at rest beside him.
The lustrous black, the ruff
upon the breast, the spray
of feathers over nostrils
and legs and feet,
the intermittent yellow
line across a jet eye,
the slow turns of the head.
We sit, suddenly old friends
looking into the middle distance.
I expect the baritone croak of answer:
Why did your people feed Elijah?
(The title is taken from the New England Primer's entry for the letter "E.")
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