On the parade ground, a woman in silk
holds her daughter's reaching hand.
The rest of us watch from lawn chairs, 
a flock, cawing over a boom box. 

Raven and fledgling. She swoops
the small blue-eyed bird up, sets her down, 
let’s her run, then gathers her back —  circling 
the young straying to the edge of the ring.

The girl tests it, darting between swings and slides,
looking back to be caught, is caught and darts again.
This is the game, the only game:
go and be gathered, go and be gathered.

Mother raven wraps arms around her chick,
spinning her off the green grass ––
the small body letting go, 
only to be held.

Something loosens in me, watching them:
years back, my fledgling self at the edge,
running and turning –– tearing back 
before knowing the running-out, was for the return.

Each in our flock remembers some Sunday ––
parents, dressed in frocks or fedoras,
living, when every parting a rehearsal
and every open arm a coming home.

Then the light shifts. The mother turns
toward our chairs and blankets, chiffon in repose,
the daughter gone limp, heavy in her Mary Janes,
they pass among us with soft eyed greetings 

And each of us chirps back,
a sideline flock of ravens,
whispering hellos ––
to her, to the girl, to ourselves.