The Writers' Circle

Once upon a winter morning, fresh white snow the trees adorning
In my car I contemplated dirty wet slush on the road.
Suddenly, as I was driving, almost as I was arriving
Came a great black raven diving - diving right onto the road
"Goodness me!" I said, "He's dying - dying right upon the road!"
	Thus I write this mournful ode.

There the raven lay, forsaken, on the road that I had taken
In my car I contemplated its limp corpse upon the road.
Each successive day I passed it; sometimes I saw flies amassed it
Each successive day I asked it, "How many cars passed and slowed?
Or did others fly right by, oblivious to what this bode?"
	To me 'tis left to write this ode.

Every day the corpse diminished, 'til one fine spring day 'twas finished
In my car I contemplated the dark stain upon the road
Not a sleek black feather left there; just a darkened spot bereft there
Of its beauty nothing left there, nothing left upon the road.
No remembrance, no marker, nor a wreath beside the road.
	I mark your passing with this ode.