Steady of wing come dark-stained words,
the raven knowledge of my ancestors.
I remember how the black bird was once white,
but a chattering of misgivings inked him into punishment.
Again, the riffling of books in my mind:
a phrase, a seam of memory. All day I wear its hem.
I watch night seeping, wait for luminous light—
for its teal edges to become gifted song.
Its whistles and crackles
must be answered with a murmur.
Aurora’s green, sky-dwellers reeling.
The north is spun.