I have always liked ravens.
Not because of a certain Poe-m or its iconic phrase.
It is not that.
I have admired their black bodies’ flashing hues, sparkling eyes, cackling conversations in the spinning trees above me as I step out into the clinging fabric of another day.
The one that sits on my shoulder is silent.
Even on good days, it is there, a shadow just on the edge of my vision.
I sense its weight, shifting ever so slightly when I move my heavy arms to the task at hand.
We are reluctant companions at best.
It could fly away I think, remove its talons from my clavicle and seek after some shiny thing.
What I mean is that it is not hindered by broken wings.
Somehow it has chosen me.
When you see me, you would not know.
I am generally social, of good humor, articulate.
This creature sitting next to my molasses head is not visible to you.
But if you come closer, perhaps you will catch just a glimpse out of the corner of your eye.
And in the days ahead, I will try to introduce you to my familiar.
Its name is Elegiac.