We make our way by icy switchbacks.
Ravens float above,
Angling their heads, calling strangely.
We've heard that they warn wolves
Of danger, a sort of dance
That sends the wolves away.
Under the ravens' sky
A coyote barks; and we go on,
Valleys to the right, the left,
For an hour, and then the top -
Sky and wind and rock. One bent pine,
From which we hear a sudden shift
Where, close to the ground,
A round black eye stares
And doesn't move.
We eat our apples, slowly
Making out white rabbit shape,
Leaving our cores
Exposed on rock.
Overhead, the ravens fly,
Calling out our names.