Oh, my raven! My saviour! You are the transcending flight from the cloudless blue of heaven; the tenacious one who lovingly snatched my hair ribbon in the grass. Out of the swirling sky came your majestic shape. Even your patched wing could not change the healing you brought to me. Beady eyes shot with black truth ushered in my purification. You were a flying, probing reality, and I lay under your wings for shelter, feathers black as a coal tit. Your limitrophe feathers were sleek like the floodtorrent cruising down the river of torment; more like the raging blood in my sickened heart. Chrestomathy was the human diagnosis, but you were having none of that, and engorged a cuckoo feather to show me how foolish I was.
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Claudia Anne. July 21/13