Ravens

I don't know what the ravens are saying this

morning of green tenderness and

rain but, my, what a collection of

squallings and cracklings and whistles, made

with the ruffling of throat feathers and the

stretching of wings, nor is it any single speech

one to the rest, but clearly, an octet, since

they are eight coal-black birds with

dark-brown eyes. I have been in this world just

long enough to learn (not always easily) to love

my neighbors and to allow them every

possibility. Maybe the ravens are talking

for some ultimate vicious but useful purpose, or

maybe it's only directions to the next mountain, or maybe

it's simple, silly joy. "hello, ravens," I say, under

their dark tree and, as if courtesy were of

great importance, they turn, they clack and spill their

delicious glottals, of no consequence but

friendly and without the least judgment, down and

over me.

Oh such a hard lesson to learn, to love our neighbors and ourselves. Mary is teaching me. Every day I add another poem to my heart's treasure and it strengthens my heart in love. Each poem speaks of sufi wisdom, nonviolent communication, and bird lore - Allow this next moment every possibility. Judge not so that you may live in silly joy. In dark rooms my pain tempts me to think and speak discourteous thoughts, then I wake to the sun, to Mary, and to life.

Where might you extend the "benefit of the doubt" to shoe who suspect to be talking or acting for some "ultimate vicious" purpose?