The crone found the raven
tangled in a fishnet, threads
tight enough to cut. Knife
in her teeth, she knelt. Unwove
an unfortunate fate.

The next morning, the great black bird
sat like a shadow on the yellowed left horn
of the cow skull over her door.

Wild creatures often pursue things
that shine—silver hair in the sun,
a flash of purple in silken black.
Less often, with the same ferocity
with which they love their freedom,
they choose to chase each other.

On the day the raven found his crone
tied to a stake, he flew into embers
to catch her soul like a berry in his beak.

Some time later, far from the cow skull,
a fresh young woman with silver eyes
slid from the trunk of a mulberry tree,
her skin streaked with dark juices.

A cat gave her a slow yellow blink.

Quiet as a shadow, it stepped from a nest
of singed feathers, fur a glossy purple-black.