Shadows of Flight

Robins used to be the sign I looked for,
the day when out of nowhere
spring would launch herself desperately
toward the sun and the freezing puddles
that tear the roads into heaving messes.

But today, the ravens return
as if beaconed by the ashes
of Lent.
These dark birds;
these shadows of flight,
hurl beaks and claws
as if they recognize my face
all these years later.

I have walked out of the desert again
and yet, these winged creatures,
not from heaven as they rest in the trees
over my head, call out to me, jabbing my sense
of my self.

I see the path
and it is not my job
to watch them watching me,
Stretching out
wing tip to wing tip
and counting all the shiny
stems of gliding from on high
to peck at all nature
of things.