To be distrustful of questions
is the best way to translate
three ravens clustered in front
of a house I was considering buying.
Even just a few months ago I would have
steeped the moment with symbolism.
The sheen of wing. Their beaded eyes that know roofs.
And trees. But no demarcation lines.
Before I would have said they were sent.
Instead I merely thought: I will stare at you
and shake off as many notions as I can.
Standing here is as close to being a raven
I will ever know. As I stepped toward to the house
you stepped aside, ushering me up the drive,
not needing me to speak.
It was much easier to open the door
now that I was full
of companion certitude.