Morning at the local library

The left wing of the raven is
there to shield the eyes from
rain, has nothing to do with
politics. It starts to sing from 
the shelf it's on — not L'inter-
nationale, of course, more of
a Poe caw chorus. Its beak
reeks of baklava, its feathers

classified according to the
Dewey Decimal system. It
browses books at random. A
life too short to spend time 
working its way methodically 
through the library catalog.