July 2009

Acadia, Pt. 1: Raven-Cry Whiskey

Empty whisky bottles are filled again with the urgent cries of ravens.

All filled half way-

Exact to the milliliter, exact to the gallon-

To keep the beast discontent

(Only half as drunk as he’d like to be)

And grumbling and growling by the fire.

There is no peace for him!

I’ve seen it in his face

(His curled lips and folded muzzle

Are indicators of his dislike for his lacking),

And I’ve felt it in his eyes.

I’ve smelt it on his breath from across the fire.

Under shadow-cover and shadow-creation

That are welded and forged by the fire’s light,

His massive paws I can see-

Two in the dirt and two on the arms of his seat.

The size of fanned out fern circles,

They rest… claws neatly rest like collected ivory knives.

But through the shadow cover,

My eyes spied diamonds-

Crystals lodged and clinging to dark matted fur.

Diamonds? Or ice?

A chilly contradiction to the warmth of the fire,

And surely the warmth in his stomach as well.