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Imagine this: an arid countryside

In early spring, wild grasses

Still brown and dormant

From the autumn before,

Cumulus clouds, dark, heavy,

Make it seem like night,

Though your watch says otherwise.

There’s a lake reflecting the clouds,

Known for its rainbow trout,

Which attracts fishermen and birds,

And a BNSF train breaking westward

Toward Moses Lake and Seattle.

Imagine a raven soaring

Over the train, and with it:

The train, with its many orange cars,

The raven, ripping, racing, winning,

And reducing everything to backdrops

and props, objects bowed

By a single, scrappy black bird.

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