S T O R I E S I N T H E T I M E O F A P A N D E M I C
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C H R I S T O P H E R R A L E Y
My words are birds,
and I am a stranger
to this darkness.
The floor rises and falls
as I climb to the window
and there release a dove.
I know she will return
with a picture of new life
or she will have found rest.
Not so the raven,
for when I released him
he neither found his rest
nor returned to my hand
but criss-crossed empty sky,
an angry black omen
carrying in his claws
the stolen redemption
of my fragile sight.
Photo header:© C:Raley
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