February
In the tallest pine,
ravens weave sticks and twigs.
With massive bill
the female knits ewe-fleece,
embroiders bright baler twine,
fashions her cradle.
All night, the nest is tossed
by snow-spumed wind-waves.
She wakes in a deeper bowl,
tree-tops and fields below have
vanished.
She stands, shakes off her lace-edged
shawl
and turns five blue-green eggs,
presses hot skin to the cool, hard
shells.
March
A larder is spread before them,
green acres, replenished daily.
The male brings mutton, juicy
afterbirths
and they feast. Each day
the black chicks cry louder, reach
higher
open red gapes wider.
April
The raven eyes her boisterous brood,
until
in a frenzy of flapping and fighting
her pot boils over.
Flies buzz
around
the spattered, crud-encrusted rim.
Barbara Mearns
