Raven flies on two wings
riding the winds of change,
beating zephyr to gust, breeze to tempest
spinning vortices from each pinion,
tumbling tornadoes of transformation
to make and remake this world.
Old men tell Raven tales –
each wing warrants a season
its own time of telling.
The Wing of Making demands respect. Awe
silences young warriors, stifles the giggles of girls.
Creation myths recount beginnings, touch mystery
summon ancestors, First Man, First Woman.
Such stories require gravitas, solemnity, ceremony.
Solstice passes, season shifts
long nights, colder days cry out for laughter;
fables to fend off boredom, hunger, rage.
Now, old men flap jaws and arms
send shadows soaring ‑ light/dark, dark/light
The Wing of Mischief craves hilarity,
famished for mirth to shake the belly
leave the strong men sniggering
awash in helpless tears.
.
Raven flies on two wings
riding the winds of change,
beating zephyr to gust, breeze to tempest
spinning vortices from each pinion,
tumbling tornadoes of transformation
to make and remake this world.
©2013 Christine Irving
