Conversing with a raven

I’d been walking in the desert 

(Part for solace, part for fun) 

When I had a conversation 

With a raven in the sun 

He was blackened like obsidian 

I was sunburned, I was sore 

He was curious of my sandwich 

But I told him, “Nevermore.” 

He regarded my confusion 

I regarded his concern 

I asked if he had wisdom 

To impart upon his turn 

He discarded his impatience 

With my clueless human mind 

And decided to take pity 

And to share what he could find 

He picked and hopped and sampled 

All the bits upon the ground 

Then to spit out or to swallow 

Based upon what he had found 

And as soon as he was finished 

With the space in which he’d stood 

He would hop and flutter further on 

Where the findings might be good 

Each time he’d keep or discard 

He’d glance to me and squawk 

To see if I was following  

The way in which he’d talk 

At last I felt I realized  

This truth as best I could: 

To taste the world in all its forms 

But keeping just the good. 

I spoke this thought aloud to him 

He squawked one last reply 

As if to say “about time, fool,” 

And away he then did fly.