I sit at the breakfast table, eating my toast and fearing death In that way I sometimes do when the sun has not fully risen and the weight of the night still clings to me like dew. A raven alights on a branch too thin for her heavy body, She bobs in and out of view just long enough for me to wonder: Has she come for me? And then she is off, winging through the dawn, glossy black feathers beating away the darkness. Even the night flees from her terrible hunger. It knows she will dine on death today, And her coven will grow fat and fearless on the flesh our world deems unclean. Oh, that she would teach me her strange craft while I still eat among the living: that I might transform our pain into flight muscles, and scour the landscape with my insatiable heart.