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walking to the bus stop
I’m welcomed
by the squawks
of ravens,
as I am every day,
same time, same place.

further conversation
is avoided —
we’ve said it all before,
there’s nothing new.

they accept my presence,
scratch themselves,
in snow-covered branches.

without warning
one drops
and soars into the distance,
another follows
then the third.

they land far away
on a telephone wire
three commas
on a line.