raven

Across my path today flew a black raven with eyes so blue they were black, or so black they were blue.   I watched her eyes as she flew here in the pretend world of Sydney...which is like maybe every city maybe every where.  At least to me it is.  They all fall under one category, which is "That Place In Which I Do Not Belong"
    "Her eyes", said the voice in my head who is Not Me..."they are other-worldy"  But I replied, "No"
   Because they are, of course, of this world.  What other world could make such a thing as the black-blue iridescence of raven's eyes?
      And me, I am of this world too.
 Every cell, every thought, every ounce.
   I am the walking, thinking, eating earth.
In the forest, perching on a branch up in a tree, where I can barely move or stretch out
      I feel no restlessness.
 Inside a small dark sapling and peat hut surrounded by only the wild
    I feel no claustrophobia.
With legs wrapped around the body of a horse, I feel no longing.  

Today, the dead leaves on the dirty ground exhaled into my face and I
    Felt Her.
Then, all you had to do was mention a longing for the jungle and
  I cannot bear it.
How sweet and terrible to know you exist and that your home is the same as mine
  And that we neither of us can be with that home, or each other.
True hell is separation.
 And how we burn!