Red Poppies

In morning still night, the sharpness, a cold that dissipates the first hour after sunlight. Across a draw, a raven soars, sails high on heat waves that crest in the blue sky. He caws, tells his world again… the Promise, all is here but for the taking.
The Raven flies free, finds substance where he may. I watch, a friend and me, trying not to speak. Thoughts of man, if spoken, mostly listless, loose words, harbor hostilities and border chiefly on nothingness.
Man’s madness, a perfect world recreated; toil, subordination, segregation. Their voices scream loudly for congregation. Follow me.