Death Of A Raven

It’s the last day of the old raven.
His turn has come and soon a pall
Of darkness will cover him up. But for now
He suspects nothing at all
As he plods along over virgin snow
Like a peasant, flits up and alights
On a bush, shakes the ice
From a branch, rubs his beak on his claw…
From behind the blue mountain a moon is emerging,
Colder, more vast than ever was seen hitherto,
As though slowly a door were opening
To let the old raven pass through.