Ravens glide o'er scraggle-spruce bog.The summer sun lights the crags.The silence rings and the morning cloudstatter to gauzy rags.The game trails wind, weave through the bush -the alders, willow and birch.The ravens alight on a cottonwood branchand watch a desp'rate search.He walks along an esker ridge.The silence swallows his calls.He climbs beside the mountain rillbetween stone canyon walls.The ravens ride the thermal draftsin long slow spiral-rise.They watch his struggles up the slideswith enigmatic eyes.'Where have you wandered, little one?Where have you gone my child?Come to your father. A child's not safeplaying in barren wilds.'A raven alights, on a ridge-line path,head quizzical, to one side,watches the searcher go back downslither the long shale slide.'Where have you wandered, little one?Call to father. I'll hear'The ravens are silhouettes on bluenever far, nor near.Light lingers late on summer daystwilight brings back clouds.The searcher seeks without a pausefrantic, yet unbowed.The seasons change - Fall, Winter's dark.The ravens though, remain,watch the desperate father searchagain, again and again.The ravens glide and watch, attendthe searcher's endless questbeyond the seasons, past the yearsbeyond the pale of death.
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