Two ravens are eating corn
In the snow, in the medicine circle.
They are jet-black
Against a field of pure white.
Looking out over this cold landscape
You would never know it is March.
You might make some tea,
Place another log on the fire.
You might gradually return to your thoughts.
You might be quiet and let the time pass.
You might try to write.
You might rest your elbow on the desk
Propping up your head,
And you might lift your eyes
And look out
At the medicine circle
Where the cracked corn
Is a golden-yellow patch in the snow.
Someone else might do something different.
But what I just described is what I did.