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Raven
We follow from the source to the river
to the mouth of the great water,
the great water whose sides heave to the sky's end,
whose eyes blink on every wave like stars,
whose body is deep as the night.
Who is friend or god in this mystery?
I know many:
hairless human, soul-eyed seal,
otter child who never grows old,
salmon with skin of silver suns
and caribou who move like ghosts
across the twilit tundra.
But the Raven here prevails.
The Old Ones say it was he who first made
a world of love and comfort
that knew no war nor death
nor troubled heart nor vermin
nor leaking boat nor pestilence,
but then from boredom wrought his mischief,
our familiar and constant mate.
That same one, wise as he is foolish,
in kindness and treachery
accompanies the firm of heart.
He shows us prey to share the spoils,
summons wind and storm and sorts
the stars scattered on the night
like drops of mist on his obsidian wings.
Some call the Raven a friend who is not true.
But what is truth in the sea and land of the wild?
It is not promise nor loyalty nor certainty of reward
but a nudge that keeps our wits honed
as the flint upon the arrow to pierce
certain the flesh for the sharing of souls.
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