Ravens And Crows Poem by Oran Brucks

Ravens and Crows. In the cold blue hush before morning,
where cedar branches stitch the sky,
Ravens gather like scattered thoughts
And Crows arrive with watchful eyes. Not merely feathers, beaks, and wings—
not only shadows crossing snow—
they carry puzzles in their silence,
maps of places the wild things only now. A raven drops a stone on a shell and 
waits for gravity to speak;
another bends a twig to harvest
What hides beyond the river reed? Along the roadside, crows assemble like black-robed scholars after rain.
One stands guard while others labour,
sharing risk and sharing grain. They learn the shape of human faces,
remember kindness, and measure wrong.
They teach their young the routes of danger
with a sharp alarm and rattling song.A single crow may solve a riddle,
But many together remake the day:
One distracts the circling hawk,
Another steals the prize away. Ravens play upon the updrafts,
rolling sideways through the air,
passing sticks like secret messages,
testing trust with cunning care. What strange bright fire lives within them—
that patient spark behind dark eyes?
They fashion tools from root and branch,
and turn the ordinary wise. We once believed that only humans
could reason, plan, invent, and create.
Yet in the trees, the crows were watching,
arriving early, learning late.So when you hear their roughened calling
above the roofs at coming dawn,
Remember, minds are not all housed
where language neatly marches on.For ravens and crows keep ancient councils
in wind-torn pines and city wires—
black-winged engineers of survival,
keepers of cooperative fires.